THE    BIRD    BOOK 


BY 

FANNIE    HARDY    ECKSTORM 


D.    C.    HEATH   &   CO.,   PUBLISHERS 

BOSTON        NEW   YORK        CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,   1901, 
BY  D.  C.  HEATH  &  Co. 


IG2 


PREFACE. 


SCIENCE  is  the  green  pasture  of  enthusiasms,  and  in  the 
study  of  it  there  is  no  denying  Shakespeare's  dictum,  — 

"  No  profit  grows  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en." 

So  if  we  adopt  bird-study  as  the  representative  of  zoological 
science,  as  we  seem  likely  to  do,  it  must  be  not  only  because  it 
is  fairly  illustrative  of  zoological  principles,  and  because  its 
materials  are  abundant  and  easily  referred  to,  but  because  it 
is  pleasurable  to  beginners. 

Bird-study,  or  .any  other  special  science,  is  justified  in  de- 
manding an  educational  hearing  if  it  contribute  generously 
either  to  a  knowledge  of  the  principles  and  methods  of  science 
in  general  or  to  the  training  of  the  powers  of  observation. 

As  far  as  possible  I  have  tried  to  open  opportunities  for 
work  in  both  directions,  dwelling  upon  what  to  see  and  how 
to  see  it,  but  not  neglecting  those  larger  problems  which  are, 
after  all,  the  non-personal  end  of  all  observation ;  and  I  have 
tried  to  do  this  in  such  a  way  that  the  pupils  might  be  led 
to  work  independently  and  intelligently  if  so  minded,  or,  at 
the  least,  to  acquire,  even  if  unconsciously,  some  notion  of 
scientific  method. 

To  keep  the  nature  study  free  from  memorization  of  any 
text-book,  however  good,  to  deliver  it  from  the  incubus  of 
ranking  per  centum,  to  put  a  premium  upon  the  child's  own 
efforts  at  discovery,  is  to  make  the  nature  work  effective.  If 
the  author  has  a  message,  it  is  that  a  child's  value,  or  a  man's 
value  as  for  that,  is  rated  by  his  self-reliance, — not  by  what 

iii 

345128 


iv  PREFACE. 

he  guesses  lie  knows,  but  by  what  he  Jcnoivs  he  knows,  which 
for  most  of  us  does  not  so  very  much  exceed  the  limits  of 
what  we  have  seen  and  experienced.  To  have  seen  something 
clearly,  to  be  able  to  tell  about  it  with  precision,  to  have  done 
something  as  well  as  it  could  be  done,  even  if  the  sight,  the 
tale,  the  deed,  were  not  notable,  gives  power  and  poise.  All 
studies  that  increase  this  effective  force  of  the  student  are 
profitable.  Theoretically,  all  studies  do  increase  it,  —  but  not 
for  all  students.  But  nature  study,  under  any  except  the 
poorest  instruction,  must  give  a  first-handed  acquaintance 
with  facts  and  an  assurance  of  knowledge. 

It  should  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  collection  and  study 
of  facts  by  direct  observation  is  scientific  work.  The  com- 
parison and  analysis  of  them  also  is  scientific  work.  Observa- 
tion and  comparison — not  learning  hard  names  —  is  science. 
Therefore  the  pupil  who  can  tell  one  new  fact  about  a  bird 
has  done  more  real  work  of  the  kind  that  counts  than  the 
other  pupil  who  has  learned  all  its  Latin  names. 

Yet  I  am  not  discouraging  the  acquisition  of  the  scientific 
terminology.  Intelligent  children  find  the  Latin  names  as 
easy  to  learn  as  the  English,  and,  with  a  little  assistance,  can 
master  all  the  commoner  botanical,  or  ornithological,  or  ento- 
mological names.  This,  however,  is  not  the  science  that  the 
teacher  is  supposed  to  teach,  and  it  should  not  be  required, 
but  only  permitted  to  those  who  desire  to  do  extra  work. 

It  has  been  urged  against  many  books  on  birds  that  they 
are  New  England  treatises.  In  making  this  one,  special  care 
has  been  taken  to  have  a  book  that  could  be  used  in  any  part 
of  the  country.  It  is  true  that  the  author  has  frankly  "  harked 
back  "  to  a  childhood  spent  in  Maine,  — 

"East,  West, 
Hame's  best ;  "  — 

but  all  the  birds  selected  for  special  study,  with  the  exceptions 
of  the  sooty  grouse  and  the  pine  grosbeak,  are  birds  that  are 


PREFACE.  V 

well-known,  abundant,  easily  observed,  and  resident  in  nearly 
all  parts  of  the  country. 

The  arrangement  of  the  book  has  two  ends  in  view :  to  adapt 
the  study  to  the  school  year,  and  to  present  it  so  that  when 
the  pupil  begins  field  work  he  shall  be  able  to  do  it  with  some 
general  idea  of  what  is  worth  observing.  The  study  of  unfa- 
miliar types  gives  some  notion  of  the  breadth  of  the  subject, — 
its  extent ;  and  it  furnishes  a  store  of  facts  to  be  applied  to  its 
intent,  the  study  of  comparisons,  in  the  next  section ;  it  also 
helps  to  fix  in  mind  the  definite  relation*  between  a  living 
organism  and  its  environment,  which,  treated  from  the  evolu- 
tionary standpoint,  forms  the  subject  of  the  third  section. 
When  spring  appears  the  pupil  is  ready  for  field  work,  which 
can  be  successfully  begun  only  when  the  birds  are  in  full  song 
and  full  plumage ;  he  comes  to  it  as  an  unhackneyed  subject, 
but  one  concerning  which  he  already  has  a  store  of  knowledge. 

The  authenticity  of  the  text  has  been  an  object  of  solicitude. 
Whatever  is  not  my  own  —  and  most  of  it  is  mine  —  is  given 
on  the  authority  and  by  the  permission  of  some  of  our  best 
field  naturalists.  For  such  permissions  I  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
WTilliam  Brewster,  whose  admirable  treatise  on  migration  I 
have  quoted  freely,  because  his  words  could  hardly  be  either 
condensed  or  simplified;  also  to  Mr.  A.  W.  Anthony,  Mr. 
Chase  A.  Littlejohn,  and  Captain  D.  P.  Ingraham,  by  whose 
courtesy  several  valuable  papers  are  quoted  almost  entire. 
Some  lesser  obligations  are  noted  in  their  places.  The  manu- 
script was  read  by  the  well-known  author  and  ornithologist, 
Mr.  C.  J.  Maynard,  to  whom  hearty  thanks  are  due. 

FANNIE  HARDY  ECKSTORM. 


CONTENTS. 

PART   I. 
WATER-BIRDS   IN   THEIR   HOMES: 

Little  Studies  in  Environment. 

PAGB 

AMONG  THE  REEDS  AND  RUSHES  —  The  Grebe  ;  The  Loon       .        .  j .  '8' 

AN  ALASKAN  ISLAND  —  The  Ancient  Murrelet          .  ",'     .        .        .  14 

OFF  GRAND  MANAN  —  Jaegers  .         .        ,        .        .     '    .        .        .  18 

THE  HERRING  GULL.         /       .        t        .      '/.,     .  '    '.        .         .  23 

ON  THE  FARRALONES  —  Feeding  Habits  of  Gulls  on  the  Pacific  Coast  30 

THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  JUNK  o'  PORK  —  Leach's  Petrel        .  33 
FEEDING  HABITS  OF  THE  FULMARS  OFF  THE  COAST  OF  SOUTHERN 

CALIFORNIA      .        .      ".,       ."•-..   .  .'.    ->•.•     x-,'.       •         •  38 

THE  NEIGHBORHOOD  OF  PERCE —  Gannets        .         .        .        .        .  42 

A  CYPRESS  SWAMP  —  The  Anhinga  .       •.        ,.        .        .        ^        .  48 

THE  LIFE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  FLAMINGO  .    ,    .         .         .  52 

THE  SEA-BIRDS  OF  THE  PLAINS  —  Pelicans       .        .'       ...  67 

PART   II. 
STRUCTURE   AND   COMPARISON: 

Little  Studies  in  Differentiation. 

COMPARING  BONES     .         .        .         ....        .        .        .        .       67 

THE  FOOT  OF  A  SWIMMING  BIRD 71 

THE  WING  OF  A  BIRD       .        .         .        .        .  '  .        .        .       75 

A  FEATHER        . .81 

THE  BIRD  IN  THE  AIR 84 

vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

COMPARING  FEET 93 

COMPARING  BILLS  '  . .99 

EYES  AND  CAMERAS  ... 108 

THE  IRIS  OF  BIRDS 112 

WHITE  BLACKBIRDS  AND  OTHER  FREAKS          .  .  115 


PART    III. 
PROBLEMS   OF   BIRD   LIFE: 

Little  Studies  in  Zoological  Theory. 

THE  BASIS  OF  CLASSIFICATION  ........  121 

THE  DEGREES  IN  CLASSIFICATION     .......  126 

How  BIRDS  ARE  NAMED .  128 

CONCERNING  THE  BIRD'S  LATIN  NAME      .         .         .         .         .         .  130 

A  SUBSPECIES    ...........  132 

THE  THREE  GREAT  PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE           ....  135 

THE  FIRST  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE          ......  138 

THE  SECOND  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE       ......  142 

THE  THIRD  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE         ......  146 

PROTECTION  BY  COLOR       .........  149 

ZOOGEOGRAPHY  .....  155 

DISTRIBUTION 157 

MIGRATION 163 

PART   IV. 
SOME   COMMON   LAND-BIRDS: 

Little  Studies  in  the  Art  of  Observation. 

ABOUT  BIRDS'  DRINKING  .........  175 

How  A  HAWK  EATS  HIS  FOOD  .                  179 

THE  SMALL  FLYCATCHERS  183 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

SPRING  IN  WESTERN  OREGON  —  The  Booming  of  the  Sooty  Grouse  188 

A  WINTER  RESIDENT  —  The  Ruffed  Grouse      .         .         .                  .  194 

THE  EAVES-SWALLOW:  HOW  SHE  CAME  AND  BUILT  HER  NEST          .  201 

THE  EAVES-SWALLOW  :  HOW  SHE  CHANGED  HER  STYLE  OF  BUILDING  208 

KNIGHTS  AND  CASTLES  —  The  Purple  Martin    .        .      \        .         .  213 

SOME  CAGED  PINE  GROSBEAKS         ".         .         ...         .         .  219 

THE  BIRD  INVISIBLE — The  Cuckoo .        .         .        .        .        .        .  225 

A  DEAD  BEAT  — The  Cow-bird         .        .        .        .        .   •     .        .230 

THE  NEST  IN  THE  PASTURE  SPRUCE          .         .-        .         ;       t .         .  236 

How  THE  SHRIKE  HUNTS  .         .        .         .        .        .        .         .        .  242 

How  THE  ROBIN  GETS  HIS  WORM     .         .         .         .         .        ..         .  248 

THE  STRANGE  THINGS  BIRDS  DO  AND  THE   STRANGE  THINGS  THEY 

SAY  253 


APPENDIX. 

ZOOGEOGRAPHICAL    DIVISIONS    OF    THE    WORLD  ....  263 

MIGRATION     '    :        V        i         .       ^         .-     .  .  .         .         .  264 

HINTS  ON  OBSERVING  BIRDS       .         .         .         .  .  .        r     ;    .  267 

HlNTS    ON    IDENTIFYING    STRANGE    LlVE    BlRDS   .  ,  .             .             .  269 

CERTAIN  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED          .         .         .  ,  .         .         .  270 

LISTS  OF  BOOKS                                                       .  ...  273 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAOE 

1.  Pied-bill  Grebe    .......      ,       V       .        .        .      Facing  4 

2.  Loon    .         .        .        .        ..t     .    .,'  .        .        .'    ''••;..          "  10 

3.  Ancient  Murrelets       .        .       ..     s  <. .    ';..'".  "  14 

4.  Jaeger         .      '  *        .       '.',..,.        .        .      ,".  "  18 

5.  Cormorant  and  Herring-Gull       .     .--.»•  >.  •/.  ••      .  ,     ..          "  30 

6.  Petrel  .        .        .        .        .        .  ;'     .        .\      ' .  '•  :  .  "  34 

7.  Gannets       .        ...        .      x  ./      .        .        .        .  '!  42 

8.  Anhinga      .        .        .....        f         .        /        .  "  48 

9.  Flamingoes          .        .  '      .         .        .        .        ,        .  "  52 

10.  Head  of  White  Pelican  in  Breeding  Season         .        .        ...      .  63 

11.  Skeletons  of  Man  and  Bird          .        .        .         .        .        .',        .  67 

12.  Bones  of  Wing  of  Bird  and  Arm  of  Man     .        .        .        .  '      .  69 

13.  Leg  Bones  of  the  Loon        .         ......        .         .72 

14.  Wing  Bones  of  Bat      .        f        .        «        .        .         .        .   '     .  75 

15.  Wing  of  Bird       .        .        .        .'        .        .        ..    J    .        .        .  76 

16.  Diagram  of  Technical  Terms      .        *        .        .        .       .«  /    •  78 

17.  Gulls  flying          .,      *'_^       ...        ..'        ...        .  85 

18.  Gulls  flying  (from  an  instantaneous  photograph)        .        »         .  86 

19.  Gulls  flying  (fifty  images  per  second)          .        *       ".      '•,      •  87 

20.  Semi-palmate  Foot  of  Sandpiper         .        . ..,-'..'       .;       .         .  94 

21.  Lobate  Foot  of  Phalarope  .       -.        *      :.        .        ^-/  .        .  94 

22.  Excised  Webbed  Foot  of  Black  Tern 95 

23.  Palmate  or  Webbed  Foot  of  Duck 95 

24.  Toti-palmate  Foot  of  Gannet 95 

25.  Zygodactyl  (or  Yoke-toed)  Foot  of  Woodpecker        ...  96 

26.  Syndactylous  Foot  of  Kingfisher 97 

xi 


Xll 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


27.  Foot  of  Longspur 

28.  Head  of  Swift 

29.  Head  of  Long-billed  Curlew 

30.  Bills  of  Frigate  Bird,  Hawk,  Shrike,  Vireo,  and  Bluebird 

31.  Head  of  Black  Skimmer      .        .    •    . 

32.  Spoon-billed  Sandpiper        . 

33.  Head  of  Roseate  Spoonbill 

34.  Bill  of  Crook-billed  Plover 

35.  Diagram  of  Human  Eye      ..... 

36.  The  Eye  of  the  Hawk  and  of  the  Owl 

37.  Head  of  Goosander  (male)  ..... 

38.  Head  of  Goosander  (female)        .... 

39.  Head  of  Hooded  Merganser  (male)     . 

40.  Head  of  Red-breasted  Merganser  (male) 

41.  Sharp-shinned  Hawk 

42.  Phoebe         .        .       V 

43.  Sooty  Grouse       .        . 

44.  Ruffed  Grouse 

45.  Nests  of  Eaves-Swallows 

46.  Purple  Martins    ....... 

47.  Pine  Grosbeak 

48.  Cuckoo 

49.  Cow-bird 

50.  Shrike          .         .         .         .         .         .        .         . 

51.  Sparrow  hung  up  by  Shrike         .... 

52.  Centipede  impaled  by  Shrike       .... 

53.  Robin 

54.  Hermit  Thrush 

55.  Vireo 

56.  White-throated  Sparrow      . 


PAGE 

.  97 
.  99 
.  100 
.  102 
.  104 

Facing  105 
.  105 
.  106 
.  108 
.  110 
.  113 
.  113 

Facing  1 1 4 
114 
181 

"          185 
'188 

"          194 
.     208 

Facing  213 
219 
225 
230 
236 
.  243 
.  246 

Facing  248 
"  .  255 
"    256 
258 


MAP,    SHOWING    ZOOGEOGRAPHICAL    DIVISIONS   OF   THE    WORLD 


262 


PART   I. 
WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 


LITTLE  STUDIES  IN  ENVIRONMENT. 

"  His  interest  in  the  flower  or  the  bird  lay  very  deep  in  his  mind,  — . 
was  connected  with  nature,  —  and  the  meaning  of  nature  was  never 
attempted  to  be  defined  by  him.  He  would  never  offer  a  memoir  of  his 
observations  to  the  Natural  History  Society.  '  Why  should  I  ?  To 
detach  the  description  from  its  connections  in  my  mind  would  make  it 

no  longer  true  or  valuable.' " 

—  EMERSON  on  Thoreau. 


THE  BIRD  BOOK. 
AMONG  THE   REEDS   AND  RUSHES. 

THE    GREBE. 

"Dear  marshes  !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share. 
*  .  *  *  #  #  *  * 

In  spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet : 
Here  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet ; 
And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd, 
As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet." 

—  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, 

An  Indian  Summer  Revery. 

BIRDS  that  cannot  fly  we  may  have  heard  of,  but  did  you 
ever  hear  of  birds  that  cannot  walk  ?  Here  is  a  picture  of 
one  of  them.  I  am  sure  it  cannot  walk,  for  I  once  had  one  for 
a  short  time  as  a  pet,  and  it  never  made  an  attempt  to  escape. 
Had  I  left  it  over  night  on  a  table,  I  should  have  found  it  in 
the  same  place  in  the  morning.  No  worse  accident  could 
happen  to  this  poor  bird  than  to  be  dropped  on  the  land  a 
little  distance  from  water ;  she  could  not  rise  from  the  land  to 
fly,  and  she  could  not  reach  the  water  unless  the  slope  toward 
it  were  steep.  Most  birds  would  die  if  they  had  to  spend  their 
whole  life  in  the  water,  but  the  grebe  would  die  on  the  land. 

3 


4  WATER-BIRDS    IN    THEIR    HOMES. 

Would  you  like '  to  see"  her  at  home  ?  Then  early  some 
summer  morning,  if  you  live  near  a  meadow  stream  that 
wanders  off  behind  beds  of  bulrushes  and  thickets  of  alders, 
and  widens  out  between  broad,  grassy  meadows,  take  a  little 
voyage  in  your  boat  up  the  stream,  paddling  slowly  and 
quietly.  There  are  carpets  of  lily  leaves,  both  the  round  pad 
of  the  white  water-lily,  dark  green  above  and  red  beneath, 
and  the  long,  lighter  green  leaves  of  the  yellow  "cow-lily,"  or 
spatterdock;  by  the  water's  edge  there  are  scattered  spears 
of  arrow-head  with  its  white  blossoms  and  clumps  of  tall 
pontederia,  which  in  Maine  we  call  both  "  pickerel-weed  "  and 
"moose-ear,"  the  latter  name  being  given  because  its  long, 
pointed  leaves  look  like  the  ears  of  the  moose.  Its  blue  spikes 
of  gold-spotted  flowers  draw  the  insects  to  it,  and  the  ducks 
love  to  hide  in  the  thick  cover  of  its  leaves. 

Perhaps  from  behind  the  ranks  of  tall  moose-ear  that  stand 
up  off  the  end  of  yonder  point  our  grebe  may  come  swimming 
out.  Perhaps  we  may  see  her  settle  slowly  into  the  water 
among  that  patch  of  floating  water-target  that  spreads  its  little 
oval  pads  like  a  carpet.  Perhaps  she  may  be  up  the  side-run, 
whose  course  is  marked  by  a  line  of  the  tall  red  thorough  wort, 
and  by  waving  ribbons  of  cat-tail  leaves. 

Watching  motionless,  we  may  sometime  see  her  glide  out 
from  such  a  place  as  this,  floating  like  a  little  duck,  for  which 
you  would  at  first  mistake  her.  She  picks  up  an  insect  from 
the  water,  or  rises  to  snatch  one  from  the  stalk  of  some  water- 
plant.  Many  a  gauze-winged  blue  and  green  dragon-fly  goes 
to  satisfy  her  appetite.  For  insects  form  by  far  the  larger 
portion  of  her  diet,  though  she  sometimes  eats  fish.  Indeed, 
in  the  West,  the  grebes  are  often  found  in  alkaline  ponds 
where  no  fish  can  live.  But  why  does  the  grebe  swallow  her 
own  feathers  ?  The  gizzard  of  the  grebe  as  commonly  con- 


FIG.  1.  -  PIED-BILLED  GREBE. 


Facing  page  4. 


AMONG    THE  REEDS    AND    RUSHES.  5 

tains  a  small  mass  of  feathers  as  that  of  the  domestic  fowl 
contains  gravel.  The  fact  is  known  to  every  naturalist,  but 
no  one  is  sure  of  the  reason  for  it. 

The  commoner  grebe  of  our  streams  and  ponds  is  a  plain 
little  brown-eyed  bird,  grayish  brown  above,  and  grayish 
white  below.  In  the  spring,  for  a  few  weeks,  a  black  band 
encircles  the  bill,  which  gives  it  the  name  of  "pied-billed"; 
and  it  has  then  a  throatpatch  of  jetty  black  that  also  dis- 
appears later  in  the  year. 

The  other  grebe,  not  so  common  as  this  except  in  the  North, 
is  a  red-eyed  bird  with  a  grayish  black  upper  and  a  pure 
white  under  surface.  In  the  spring  this  bird  also  puts  on  a 
bridal  dress,  which  entirely  alters  its  appearance.  Above  it 
is  glossy  black;  the  throat  and  front  of  the  neck  become  rich 
chestnut,  which  follows  down,  each  side  in  a  stripe  near  the 
wings ;  around  the  head,  back  of  the  eyes,  springs  a  great 
muffle  of  black  silky  plumes  that  stand  out  like  the  frill  to  a 
bonnet,  and  long,  buffy-brown  plumes  start  out  near  the  ears. 
These  feather  ornaments  give  the  bird  its  name  of  "horned" 
grebe.  All  the  grebes  put  on  a  gay  breeding  dress  in  the 
spring.  It  is  odd  that  after  wearing  these  fine  feathers  only 
a  few  weeks,  they  should  shed  them  and  put  on  their  plain 
everyday  dress.  In  the  West  the  horned  grebe  is  replaced  by 
the  American  eared  grebe,  with  golden  tufts  instead  of  brown 
ones. 

It  is  scarcely  likely  that  you  will  learn  much  about  the 
colors  of  the  grebe  in  one  trip  or  in  two  or  three ;  probably 
you  will  not  be  able  to  decide  which  species  you  are  observ- 
ing, for  she  is  a  suspicious  little  body,  and  if  she  does  not 
like  your  looks  she  will  glide  back  under  the  cover  of  the 
plants,  or  will  sink  slowly  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water. 
If  you  do  not  watch  her  every  moment,  she  will  disappear 


6  WATER-BIRDS    fN    THEIR    HOMES. 

without  leaving  a  ripple,  and  you  may  never  see  her  again  ;  for 
she  can  swim  a  long  way  with  only  her  bill  out  of  the  water. 
If  she  is  suddenly  alarmed,  she  will  plunge  in  with  a  splash, 
head  down  and  heels  up,  and  so  quickly  that  she  can  dodge 
a  bullet  after  she  sees  the  flash  of  the  gun.  So  the  com- 
monest names  of  the  grebe  are  "devil-diver,"  or  "hell-diver," 
or  "  water- witch." 

The  grebe  builds  her  nest  in  the  water,  making  it  of  rushes 
and  water-plants,  which  she  nips  off  with  her  sharp  bill  and 
piles  together,  either  upon  the  bottom,  upon  the  shore  close 
to  the  water's  edge,  or  around  some  tall  reed  which  securely 
moors  the  little  floating  nest.  On  leaving  the  nest  she  covers 
it  with  grass  and  weeds,  so  that  it  may  be 'less  easily  detected. 
The  nest  is  usually  wet,  and  often  the  eggs  lie  partly  in  the 
water  that  gathers  in  it.  But  this  seems  to  make  no  difference 
to  the  little  grebes,  who,  as  soon  as  they  are  hatched,  are  ready 
to  sail  off  after  their  mother.  What  a  very  damp  life  a  grebe 
must  lead,  always  in  the  water,  whether  asleep  or  awake,  and 
even  when  in  the  shell  hatched  in  a  leaky  cradle ! 

Yet  it  is  not  an  unpleasant  life.  The  grebe  has  few  enemies, 
and  the  most  of  these  she  can  escape  by  diving.  Food  is 
always  abundant.  Those  pleasant  little  excursions  among  the 
giant  bulrushes  and  the  fields  of  lily-pads  bring  her  many  a 
gay  dragon-fly  and  dancing  may-fly  and  swift  water-skater.  It 
is  fun  for  her  to  follow  a  school  of  minnows,  nipping  them 
right  and  left.  Besides,  she  has  many  games  with  her 
mates,  running  upon  the  water  and  diving  just  for  the  fun 
of  it. 

The  grebe's  nearest  neighbors  among  the  rushes  are  two 
solemn,  long-legged  fellows  called  the  heron  and  the  stake- 
driver,  or  bittern,  who  fish  in  the  shallow  water ;  a  family  of 
wood-ducks  that  paddle  around  among  the  pads  and  cat-tails, 


AMONG    THE  REEDS  AND   RUSHES.  1 

or  sit  sunning  themselves  011  a  slanting  drift-log;  a  big  gray 
bird  called  a  coot  and  his  smaller  cousins,  the  rails,  that  come 
stealing  through  the  tall  grass,  or  walk  out  on  the  lily-pads 
with  slow  placing  of  their  long-toed  feet,  or  when  they  are 
invisible,  grunt  and  whistle  among  the  fowl  meadow-grass  and 
wild  rice  jungle ;  and  two  kinds  of  busy,  scolding  marsh  wrens, 
which  make  the  snuggest  little  round  nests  you  ever  saw,  and 
hang  them  among  the  stout  stalks  of  bulrushes,  cat-tails,  and 
tall  grasses.  These  nests  are  made  of  coarse  grasses,  reeds, 
and  flags,  and  some  of  them  are  woven  most  curiously  out  of 
the  flat,  dry  leaves  of  the  cat-tail.  'They  are  as  waterproof 
as  our  own  houses,  for  the  nest  is  spherical  and  the  doorway 
is  a  little  round  hole  in  the  side. 

Such  are  the  life  and  the  home  surroundings  of  the  grebe. 
She  is  fit  for  no  other.  Her  broad,  flat  breast  and  long  body 
make  her  float  like  a  little  boat,  and  her  silky,  elastic  feathers, 
with  a  full  undersuit  of  thick  down,  keep  her  warm  and  dry 
in  all  weathers.  To  keep  out  of  the  rain  she  need  only  go 
beneath  the  surface  of  the  water!  She  can  swim  under  the 
surface  as  well  as  above  it,  and  her  feet,  affixed  at  the  very  end 
of  her  body,  serve  both  as  rudder  and  propeller.  Strange  feet 
they  are ;  they  look  as  if  the  grebe  had  once  been  like  other 
birds,  but  its  feet  had  afterward  been  laid  down  sidewise  and 
stamped  upon.  They  seem  to  be  crushed  flat.  The  toes  are 
thin,  the  shank  is  like  a  knife-blade,  and  the  flattened  toenails 
seem  to  have  been  driven  into  the  flesh.  The  whole  foot  is 
neither  horny  like  a  crow's,  nor  plump  and  fleshy  like  a 
duck's ;  but  a  smooth-scaled,  fleshless,  unnatural  foot.  It 
always  seems  to  me  to  feel  "  fishy."  Yet  for  its  use  it  is 
admirable.  How  swiftly  it  drives  the  bird  ahead,  cutting  the 
water  with  the  least  possible  resistance !  How  well  it  enables 
the  bird  to  run  upon  the  surface  or  to  dive  beneath ! 


8  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

But  the  grebe  cannot  fly  well.  Her  wings  are  small,  her 
breast  muscles  very  weak,  her  body  so  badly  balanced  that 
when  she  is  getting  upon  the  wing  it  drags  down  like  that  of 
a  hornet  until  she  is  fairly  under  way ;  after  that,  with  neck 
straight  out  in  front,  and  legs  as  stiffly  stretched  back  to  steer 
her,  she  flies  fairly  well.  Even  then  she  cannot  fly  under  all 
conditions :  she  must  get  her  start  by  flapping  and  spattering 
along  the  surface,  working  with  both  wings  and  feet ;  and  she 
must  have  some  space  to  run  in,  and  a  breeze  to  run  against, 
or  she  cannot  mount  upon  the  wing. 

Indeed,  but  for  two  circumstances,  we  may  suppose  the  grebe 
would  never  fly  at  all.  In  the  fall  of  the  year  she  sees  that  she 
must  leave  her  summer  home.  Soon  the  ponds  will  be  frozen, 
and  her  food  supply  will  be  killed  or  covered  with  ice.  If  she 
is  not  frozen  to  death,  she  will  be  starved,  unless  she  leaves 
before  winter.  So  when  a  breezy  day  comes  the  grebes  mount 
and  are  off  —  the  pied-billed  grebes  to  southern  quarters,  the 
horned  grebes  to  the  ocean  which  never  freezes.  But  with  the 
spring  back  come  the  grebes.  For  those  that  winter  in  the 
ocean  this  is  almost  as  necessary  as  their  going  south.  Nor 
is  it  hard  to  see  why  it  should  be  so.  As  the  grebe  cannot 
walk  she  must  always  nest  close  to  the  water's  edge.  But  at 
the  seashore  the  water's  edge  at  high  tide  may  be  half  a  mile 
away  from  the  low-tide  mark.  Even  where  there  are  but  a 
few  rods  between  the  two  the  grebe  would  have  to  take  her 
choice  between  a  day  on  the  nest  and  a  day  in  the  water,  as  it 
is  twelve  hours  from  tide  to  tide.  So  if  she  would  raise  a 
brood,  she  must  fly  to  some  pond  or  inland  lake  where  there  is 
no  tide  to  incommode  birds  that  cannot  walk.  Therefore, 
while  the  grebe  lives  in  the  North  in  summer  she  must  be  able 
to  make  these  journeys.  To  be  unable  to  fly  would  mean  the 
extermination  of  the  race  by  cold  and  starvation. 


AMONG    THE    HEEDS    AND    RUSHES. 

THE    LOON. 

**  Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow  mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light. 
The  loon  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed,  and  the  echoes,  huddled  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night." 

—  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud. 

THE  loon  can  fly  more  easily  than  the  grebe,  though  it 
needs  a  breeze  and  a  run  on  the  water  before  it  can  mount 
unsteadily  on  its  short  and  narrow  wings.  Though  it  cannot 
walk  at  all,  it  has  a  shuffling  movement  on  land  that  is  better 
than  the  grebe's  utter  helplessness,  and  it  can  get  on  shore 
and  build  a  nest  out  of  reach  of  the  water. 

Unlike  the  grebe,  the  loon  does  not  nest  on  a  raft  of  grass, 
but  on  "  a  right  little,  tight  little  island."  Those  on  which  I 
have  known  loons  to  nest  were  islets  a  rod  or  two  across, 
sometimes  marshy,  but  more  often  dry  and  rocky  and  covered 
with  a  thick  growth  of  grass.  All  Mother  Loon  asked  was 
grass  enough  for  a  nest,  and  to  conceal  herself  while  sitting. 
The  nest  is  not  very  well  made,  but  there  is  a  slight  hollow 
that  holds  the  two  big  mud-colored  eggs  dotted  with  dark 
brown  spots.  In  time  there  come  out  two  of  the  smuttiest- 
colored  little  youngsters  you  ever  saw,  about  the  size  of  gos- 
lings, dusty  black  all  over  at  first  but  later  with  a  whitish  belly 
and  with  comical  little  bills  entirely  unlike  their  mother's. 

But  perhaps  you  are  not  acquainted  with  Mother  Loon.  She 
is  a  large  bird,  as  big  as  a  Christmas  turkey ;  that  is,  she  will 
weigh  ten  pounds  if  in  good  condition.  It  always  seems  to  me 
that  there  is  something  very  motherly  about  her  stout,  heavy 
body,  squatting  close  down  upon  her  big  feet,  with  her  wise 
old  green  head,  as  soft  as  the  softest  plush,  and  her  two  white 


10  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

striped  collars  at  the  throat ;  a  much  milder-looking,  more  do- 
mestic bird  on  her  little  island  than  when  she  is  sailing  around 
in  the  big  lake,  hallooing  to  wake  echoes. 

She  is  very  fond  of  her  little  loon  chicks,  and  has  more 
worries  than  most  land-birds.  We  hardly  realize  the  number 
of  their  enemies.  Hawks  are  always  ready  to  devour  £hem 
(and  whatever  may  be  said  in  favor  of  hawks,  they  leave  many 
feathers  along  the  pond  sides  where  they  have  picked  and 
eaten  water-fowl).  The  old  herring  gulls  would  not  hesitate 
to  stoop  and  take  one,  for  fat  young  loon  is  a  delicious  morsel 
to  them.  Then  the  big  pickerel  in  the  lakes  often  catch  young 
birds,  much  oftener  than  you  imagine.  The  great  bull-frogs  of 
the  Northern  ponds  also  gobble  up  little  ducks.  (Do  not  foe 
surprised ;  for  if  you  ever  saw  one  of  those  great  frogs,  you 
would  readily  believe  the  statement,  and  I  know  it  to  be  true.) 
The  great  mud-turtles  that  root  about  in  the  ooze  of  the  pond 
bottoms,  huge  fellows,  that  will  walk  off  with  a  man  standing 
on  their  back,  eat  many  water-fowl ;  and  there  are  mink  and 
otter  and  men  as  occasional  dangers,  so  that  the  poor  Mother 
Loon  has  a  constant  worry  for  a  few  weeks.  Still,  every  other 
water-bird  has  just  the  same,  and  most  of  them  have  more 
children  to  look  after. 

Mother  Loon  has  a  great  advantage  over  other  birds,  in  her 
size  and  courage.  She  is  afraid  of  nothing,  can  swim  better 
under  water  than  upon  the  surface,  and  is  armed  with  a  terri- 
ble bill  that  can  be  driven  entirely  through  the  body  of  the 
largest  fish  in  the  lake. 

She  eats  nothing  but  fish,  and  is  very  expert  at  catching 
them.  As  it  often  is  not  convenient  to  swallow  a  fish  tail  fore- 
most on  account  of  its  fins  and  spines,  she  is  clever  in  tossing 
them  in  air  and  catching  them  head  first,  so  that  they  slide 
down  her  throat  as  smoothly  as  if  they  were  sardines. 


p 


AMONG   THE  REEDS  AND  RUSHES.  11 

Though  there  are  several  species  of  loons  in  North  America, 
only  one  is  common  in  the  United  States,  and  this  one  varies 
so  much  in  color  with  age  and  the  season  that  we  might  easily 
suppose  that  we  had  seen  two  kinds  of  loons.  Young  and 
winter  birds  are  gray  above,  indistinctly  spotted,  and  the  white 
of  the  breast  runs  up  to  the  chin,  while  the  head  and  neck  are 
no  darker  than  the  back.  The  "  gray  loon  "  of  the  fishermen 
is  a  smaller  species,  the  red-throated  diver,  which  lives  farther 
north,  and  comes  as  a  winter  visitor  to  the  seacoast  of  the 
United  States. 

If  you  ever  get  well  acquainted  with  the  loons  you  will 
always  be  wondering  whether  they  are  the  jolliest  people 
afloat,  or  the  most  lonesome  maniacs  that  ever  lived  outside  an 
asylum.  Sometimes  they  have  little  parties  with  races  run 
from  a  given  starting-point  to  a  set  goal.  Great  is  the  shout- 
ing and  clamor  as  they  run  on  the  water,  feet  and  wings  both 
helping,  each  one  plainly  doing  his  best  to  get  first  to  the  win- 
ning |)ost  —  an  imaginary  post  of  course,  but  it  will  be  noticed 
that  all  stop  at  just  the  same  point.  Then  they  put  their 
heads  together  and  talk  it  over  with  merry  ha-ha-has  and 
chucklings  that  set  the  observer  to  laughing  too,  and  all 
swim  slowly  back  to  the  starting-point  to  run  once  more. 

Often  when  alone  the  loon  laughs  to  himself,  and  often,  lift- 
ing his  head,  he  gives  his  long,  wild  call  —  "  not  his  laughter, 
but  his  looning,"  as  Thoreau  puts  it  in  his  book  on  the  "Maine 
Woods."  Except  when  he  is  at  play  with  others  the  loon's 
heart  never  seems  to  be  in  his  laughter;  and  you  wonder  if  this 
terrible  crazy  yell,  hollow,  mad,  and  meaningless,  echoed  back 
by  the  woods  and  mountains  that  surround  the  lake,  does  not 
better  tell  you  what  a  desperately  lonesome  and  demented 
creature  he  is.  "  As  crazy  as  a  loon  "  is  a  current  Northern 
saying.  Yet  of  all  the  mad  noises  the  bird  can  make,  nothing 


12  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

compares  with  the  hoarse  haw-haw-haw,  haw-haw-haw,  of  a 
flock  of  loons  flying  in  a  strong  breeze. 

I  well  recollect  a  trip  we  once  made  down  Caucomgomoc 
Lake  in  the  northern  Maine  wilderness.  The  morning  broke 
squally  and  threatening  more  wind,  but  as  we  had  been  de- 
tained by  heavy  rains,  and  as  the  wind  was  aft,  we  hoped 
by  starting  early  to  make  the  run  before  the  sea  rose  dan- 
gerously. In  that  we  did  not  succeed.  The  clouds  flocked 
thicker,  the  waves  ran  white  as  sheep,  and  before  we  were 
halfway  over  they  were  washing  level  with  the  gunwales  of 
the  canoe,  and  slopping  in-board,  to  remind  us  that  there 
would  be  worse  ahead.  The  land-line  began  to  waver  in  the 
rising  steam  until  we  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  near 
or  far  away.  The  sun,  "  drawing  water,"  sent  down  a  great 
fan  of  purple  bars  edged  with  coppery  reflections  that  made 
both  sky  and  water  black. 

It  was  a  wild-looking  lake  and  sky,  and  for  us  every 
moment  was  worse  than  the  last.  We  were  not  only  driving 
into  a  heavier  sea,  but  in  making  the  outlet  we  must  cross  a  half 
mile  or  more  of  shoal  ground,  where  on  our  trip  up  the  lake  we 
had  seen  many  sharp  rocks  sticking  above  the  water  and  more 
just  beneath  the  surface.  The  waves  were  now  running  so  high 
that  as  the  canoe  rode  over  them  she  split  them,  and  they  stood 
in  hills  of  water  above  either  rail.  The  canoe  grew  hard  to 
handle  in  such  a  flawy  wind  and  broken  sea,  and  we  could  get 
no  clew  to  the  dangers  hidden  where  we  knew  we  must  run. 

Meanwhile,  three  loons  had  mounted  and  were  racing  on  the 
wing.  A  fiendish  glee  seemed  to  fill  them.  Under  the  black 
sky  they  looked  as  black  as  ink.  Round  and  round  they 
coursed,  necks  and  legs  extended,  their  pointed  wings  beating 
a  double  quick,  as  they  cackled  their  malevolent  laughter,  and 
called  for  more  speed  and  a  better  breeze.  It  was  a  witches' 


AMONG    THE  REEDS  AND   BUSHES.  13 

carnival  in  broad  day,  and  under  its  spell  the  stormy  lake 
seemed  to  grow  more  tempestuous.  But  we  drove  through  all 
right,  just  dodged  the  upright  fluke  of  an  old  anchor  left  by 
the  river-drivers  in  the  outlet,  rounded  in  beneath  the  lee  of  a 
bank,  and  safe  in  a  sheltered  nook  where  no  wind  disturbed 
the  calm,  blew  the  water  from  our  noses  and  wiped  it  from  our 
eyes  with  much  love  of  the  land. 

The  loon  is  the  spirit  of  the  lake.  Nothing  in  our  Northern 
waters  so  entirely  fits  the  framework  of  the  wild,  mysterious 
forest  that  hems  them  round.  To  hear  the  loon's  cry  at  night 
is  almost  as  if  the  lake  were  speaking. 

Once,  while  camping  on  the  shores  of  Chesuncook  Lake  in 
Maine,  I  witnessed  an  impressive  incident.  It  was  late  after- 
noon before  a  rain,  and  I  had  stepped  down  to  the  shore  and 
stood  looking  at  Big  Spenser  Mountain  across  the  lake,  feeling 
the  quiet  and  grayness  and  flatness  that  falls  upon  a  landscape 
with  an  approaching  storm.  There  was  no  sound  but  that  of 
a  cricket;  no  ripple  on  the  great  smooth  lake;  nothing  had 
moved  recently  enough  to  leave  a  circle  on  its  surface  within 
half  a  mile ;  yet,  slowly,  not  five  rods  from  me,  out  of  the 
heart  of  the  quiet  water,  rose  the  green  head  and  neck  of  a 
loon.  I  could  see  its  velvety  softness,  every  white  line  on  its 
little  collars,  -the  keen  bill  and  the  keener  red  eye,  a  head 
without  a  body,  alone  in  the  vastness  of  the  great  lake.  Then 
it  sank,  slow,  noiseless,  mysterious,  without *a  wake.  So  sank 
the  sword  Excalibur  when  Sir  Bedivere  at  Arthur's  bidding 
cast  it  in  the  lake. 

"  Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold,  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 


AN  ALASKAN   INLAND.1 

"  There  dark  they  lie  and  stark  they  lie  —  rookery,  dune,  and  floe, 
And  the  Northern  Lights  come  down  o'  nights  to  dance  with  the  house- 
less snow, 

And  God  who  clears  the  grounding  berg  and  steers  the  grinding  floe 
He  hears  the  cry  of  the  little  kit  fox  and  the  lemning  in  the  snow." 

—  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  The  Rhyme  of  the  Three  Sealers. 

THE    ANCIENT    MUKRELET. 

THE  Ancient  Murrelet,  or  the  "  Old  Man,"  as  the  Eussians 
call  him,  is  one  of  the  sea-birds  of  the  Alaskan  and  Siberian 
coast.  The  following  account  of  his  habits  is  so  good  that  we 
may  make  place  for  him :  — 

We  were  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles  east  by  south 
from  Unga  (a  small  island  off  the  Alaskan  peninsula)  when 
these  hardy  birds  were  first  seen.  At  first  one  would  think 
they  were  amusing  themselves,  for  they  would  fly  a  short  dis- 
tance ahead  of  the  ship,  dropping  into  the  water,  and  swim- 
ming so  as  to  be  near  the  vessel's  bows  as  she  passed ;  then 
diving  beneath  the  hull  and  coming  up  just  under  the  stern. 
After  they  had  dropped  astern  a  few  hundred  feet,  they  took 
wing  and  repeated  this  manoeuvre  with  unvarying  precision 
throughout  the  entire  day.  By  close  watching  I  found  that  it 
was  not  for  pleasure  they  did  this,  but  that  they  were  feeding 
on  small  invertebrates,  such  as  are  found  on  ships'  bottoms. 

By  June  second  their  nesting  grounds  were  reached,  but  no 
birds  were  to  be  found,  and  to  one  unacquainted  with  their 

1  Abridged  by  permission  of  the  author,  Mr.  Chase  Littlejohn,  from  an 
article  published  in  The  Auk. 

14 


V- 


FIG.  3.  — ANCIENT  MURRELETS. 


Facing  page  14. 


AN  ALASKAN  ISLAND.  15 

habits  there  was  no  sign  of  their  having  arrived.  Nevertheless, 
we  land,  pitch  our  tent,  and  wait  until  the  close  of  that  long 
twilight  which  is  found  only  in  the  far  North ;  and  just  as  it 
merges  into  the  night  we  see  a  bat-like  form  flit  by,  and  pres- 
ently from  somewhere  in  the  gloom  comes  an  abrupt  and 
starting  kroo-kroo-coo,  which  is  at  once  answered  with  a  like 
call,  or  with  the  nerve-destroying  kwee-ke-ke-ke  in  a  very  high, 
shrill  key,  the  call  note  of  the  Leach's  petrel. 

Presently  we  hear  a  whirr  of  wings  in  different  directions, 
then  more  voices,  pitched  in  various  keys,  and  before  we  are 
fairly  aware  of  it,  both  heaven  and  earth  seem  to  vibrate  with 
rumbling  noises  and  whirring  wings. 

As  we  step  out  of  our  tent  perfectly  astonished  at  this  sud- 
den change,  and  move  to  the  foot  of  a  small  knoll  near  by, 
listening  to  the  violent  outburst  of  noises,  a  muffled  sound 
comes  from  right  under  our  feet.  We  stoop  and  discover  a 
small  burrow  in  the  earth,  and  from  it  come  the  cooing  love- 
notes  of  a  petrel,  k-r-r-r,  k-r-r-r.  This  is  its  home. 

From  a  somewhat  larger  burrow,  only  a  few  feet  to  our 
right,  comes  another  sound,  and  moving  cautiously  in  this 
direction  we  listen  to  the  love-notes  of  Cassin's  auklet,  which 
remind  me  of  the  sounds  produced  by  a  squeaky  saw  while 
passing  through  a  hard  knot,  somewhat  like  kwee-kew,  kwee- 
kew,  which  fortunately  lasts  only  for  three  or  four  hours  each 
night.  These  noises,  coming  from  hundreds  of  anklets  and 
thousands  of  petrels,  become  almost  distracting,  and  effectually 
banish  sleep  for  the  first  few  nights  on  the  island. 

These,  then,  are  some  of  our,  murrelet's  neighbors,  but  where 
is  he  ?  We  listen  in  vain  for  some  note  of  his,  but  hear  none. 
As  we  walk  on  a  little  distance  among  the  tall  grass  of  last 
year's  growth,  we  notice  a  small  dark  object  flapping  about, 
and  after  a  short  chase  we  manage  to  capture  it,  and  discover 


16  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR   HOMES. 

our  Old  Man,  but  fail  to  locate  his  nest.  We  did  not  then 
know  the  places  —  under  rank,  matted  grass  —  which  are  mostly 
preferred  by  the  murrelet  for  nesting  sites. 

We  remained  on  this  desolate,  wind-swept  island  for  two 
weeks.  After  losing  about  a  week's  sleep,  owing  to  their 
squeaking,  I,  at  least,  felt  like  choking  the  whole  lot.  As  if 
not  satisfied  with  the  constant  babble  of  their  neighbors,  the 
murrelets  took  especial  delight  in  alighting  at  the  foot  of  our 
A-shaped  tent,  toe-nailing  it  up  to  the  ridgepole,  resting  there 
a  moment,  and  then  sliding  down  the  other  side.  This  exer- 
cise seemed  to  amuse  them,  and  it  certainly  did  us  until  the 
novelty  wore  off. 

In  a  short  time  after  the  first  birds  arrive  on  their  breeding 
grounds,  -and  before  one  has  time  to  realize  it,  the  entire  sur- 
face of  certain  favorite  islands  is  literally  alive  with  murrelets 
and  auklets,  and  both  Leach's  and  fork-tailed  petrels.  When 
one  walks  about  at  this  time  the  murrelets  and  auklets  become 
frightened,  running,  flopping,  and  flying  about  in  such  numbers 
that  one  has  to  be  careful  when  he  steps  lest  they  be  crushed 
under  foot. 

If  it  is  windy,  and  it  usually  is,  they  are  on  the  wing  as  soon 
as  disturbed ;  but  when  a  calm  prevails  they  have  to  flop  to  the 
side  of  a  steep  bank,  from  which  they  can  jump  and  thereby 
gain  sufficient  headway  to  keep  on  the  wing.  In  their  frantic 
efforts  to  be  off,  they  become  bewildered  and  are  as  apt  to  fly 
in  one's  face,  or  against  the  cliffs,  as  anywhere. 

We  soon  discovered  that  the  murrelets  were  not  especially 
particular  in  the  selection  of  a  nesting  site.  An  abandoned 
burrow  of  Cassin's  auklet,  a  deep  crevice  in  the  cliffs,  under 
large  broken  rocks  which  had  fallen  from  the  latter,  or  under 
rank  tussocks  of  grass,  with  which  the  higher  portion  of  the 
island  was  covered,  would  answer  equally  well.  Under  these 


AN  ALASKAN  ISLAND.  17 

almost  solid  bunches  (the  grass  remaining  from  many  years)  the 
murrelets  would  force  their  way,  leaving  only  a  slight  hole  in 
the  mass,  which  was  usually  very  hard  to  detect.  After  once 
gaining  an  entrance  into  this  matted  vegetation,  and  working 
their  way  in  for  two  or  three  feet,  a  shallow  cavity  about  five 
inches  in  diameter  and  two  or  three  inches  deep  was  scratched 
out.  This  was  nicely  lined  with  dry  grass  of  last  year's  growth, 
carried  in  from  the  outside,  making  a  neat  and  snug  home  in 
which  two  beautiful  eggs,  comprising  a  set,  were  deposited. 

Some  of  their  nests  were  found  fully  two  hundred  yards 
from  the  water.  In  the  other  situations  mentioned  little  and 
often  no  nest  is  made,  and  the  eggs  are  deposited  on  the 
bare  rocks,  in  soft  sand,  or  on  the  wet,  muddy  soil.  I  even 
took  several  sets  on  the  bare  ice  at  the  bottom  of  some  auklets' 
burrows,  the  ground  being  still  frozen  immediately  beneath 
the  grass  and  moss  on  July  third,  when  I  left  the  island. 

Like  the  auklets,  they  exchange  places  nightly,  and  while 
one  attends  to  the  home  cares,  the  other  is  usually  a  number 
of  miles  out  at  sea  on  the  feeding  grounds.  What  their  food 
consists  of  at  this  time  of  the  year  I  am  unable  to  say. 

Great  numbers  of  these  birds  are  taken  by  Peale's  falcon. 
As  I  have  already  stated,  the  murrelets  are  mainly  found  at 
some  distance  from  land  during  the  day ;  and  here,  too,  this 
falcon  pursues  them,  watching  for  a  chance  to  seize  any  mur- 
relet  he  succeeds  in  driving  from  the  water.  After  having 
secured  its  prey,  the  falcon  circles  about  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  partakes  of  its  meal.  To  do  this  he  hovers,  remaining 
almost  stationary  for  several  minutes  at  a  time  ;  in  the  mean- 
time the  prey  is  raised  well  up  to  the  beak  with  both  feet  and 
promptly  devoured.  When  the  murrelets  return  to  land  at 
nightfall,  the  falcon  is  there  'also  to  meet  them,  and  soon 
again  secures  his  nightly  repast. 


OFF   GKAND   MANAN. 

"  From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drifts, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 
O  hundred-harbored  Maine  ! " 

—  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER,  The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell. 


JAEGERS.1 

THE  life  of  the  great  sea  is  not  to  be  realized  from  the  deck 
of  an  ocean  liner.  You  must  be  close  down  to  the  heave  of 
the  ocean,  tossed  by  it,  and  fully  at  its  mercy,  to  know  the  sea. 

Suppose  some  day  we  were  to  join  the  porpoise  fleet  of  the 
Passamaquoddy  Indians  as  they  set  out  at  sunrise  in  their 
birch-bark  canoes  from  the  summer  camp  at  Grand  Manan  Isl- 
and—  the  great  bluff  island  off  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Croix  River. 
Theirs  is  a  dangerous  trade,  but  there  are  no  bolder  or  more 
skilful  navigators  of  small  boats  in  the  world  than  these 
Indians,  who  take  the  risks  of  a  rock-bound  coast,  with  sunken 
ledges,  sudden  storms,  the  densest  fogs,  and  a  tide  of  almost 
incredible  height,  that  rushes  through  the  narrows  and  sets  in 
motion  great  tidal  currents  and  whirlpools.  All  sailors  meet 
hardships  and  see  strange  sights,  but  these  Indians,  hunters 
of  the  ocean,  see  and  know  more  strange  and  wonderful  things 
and  take  greater  risks  than  the  ordinary  seafarer. 

What  might  befall  us  if  we  started  with  them  some  summer 
morning  at  sunrise,  when  the  surface  of  the  sea  is  smooth  and 

1  Pronounced  ya-ger,  with  g  hard ;  also  spelled  jdger. 
18 


FIG.  4.— JAEGER. 


Facing  page  18. 


OFF  GRAND  MAN  AN.  19 

oily-looking,  and  a  morning  fog  hangs  over  it,  smoking  in  thin 
curtains  that  narrow  the  horizon  to  a  little  circle,  and  make 
the  sun  a  bright  blur  in  the  mist  ? 

Mile  after  mile  we  are  paddled,  steered  by  the  compass, 
breaking  the  fog  before  us  and  seeing  it  close  in  behind,  lifted 
on  the  long  ocean  rollers  that  pulse  in  from  outside  as  smooth  as 
glass,  twenty  feet  from  trough  to  roll,  —  the  slow,  long  heave 
of  the  slumbering  ocean.  This  "  old  swell,"  which  follows  a 
blow  or  rolls  in  from  a  distant  oceanic  gale,  is  rarely  absent 
from  the  open  sea  on  our  Eastern  coasts.  It  throbs  contin- 
ually even  in  the  calmest  weather,  and  the  "  rote  "  of  it  as  it 
breaks  against  the  cliffs,  or  drags  down  the  rounded  atones 
upon  the  seaward  beaches  and  roll's  them  up  again,  is  a 
ceaseless  din. 

The  long  swells,  green  and  bubbly  like  thick  glass,  as  you 
look  into  them  under  the  shadow  of  the  rosy  fog,  make  no 
noise,  for  they  do  not  break  ;  but  out  of  sight  in  the  mist  we 
hear  them  thunder  upon  a  sunken  ledge. 

We  hear,  too,  the  snuffling  and  snarling  of  the  seals  fishing 
in  shallow  water,  which  the  Indian  always  regards  as  a  warn- 
ing to  " '  Ware  there  ! "  For  the  seal  spends  most  of  his  idle 
time  lying  upon  the  ledges,  or  else  swimming  around,  waiting 
for  the  tide  to  go  down  and  uncover  some  half-tide  rock.  A 
black  guillemot  —  a  "  sea-pigeon,"  an  Indian  or  fisherman 
would  call  him  —  bobs  upon  the  surface,  or  flies  by  on  short, 
quick-moving  wings  that,  being  party-colored,  look  like  two 
pairs  of  wings,  one  white,  the  other  black.  He  is  a  useless, 
harmless,  confiding  little  bird,  with  his  red  feet  and  pretty, 
soft,  mottled  feathers,  one  of  the  auk  family,  and  the  only  one 
common  along  this  coast  in  summer. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  tide  streak  where  opposing  currents 
throw  up  a  line  of  seaweed  and  ocean-drift  in  a  long,  winding 


20  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

ribbon  ;  and  on  this  we  may  at  times  see  a  flock  of  Bonaparte's 
gulls  sitting  quietly  on  the  water  like  white  doves,  or  a  troop 
of  phalaropes  feeding  with  nervous,  uncertain  actions.  These 
tiny  creatures,  dainty  in  all  their  ways  and  colors,  stretch  up 
their  necks  to  an  astonishing  length,  suspicious  of  our  inten- 
tions. We  see  now  why  the  fishermen  call  them  "  sea-geese," 
though  they  are  no  more  geese  than  they  are  robins. 

Gulls  and  terns  pass  and  repass  continually,  growing  out  of 
the  mist  and  melting  into  it ;  and  perhaps  a  shark's  fin  cuts 
the  water,  or  we  hear  the  puff  of  a  porpoise  off  under  the  fog ; 
or,  of  a  sudden,  a  roller  larger  than  the  rest,  and  rising  from  a 
deeper  trough,  trips  on  a  sunken  ledge,  and  rears  a  straight 
wall  of  water  with  a  comb  of  foam,  before  it  thrashes  down 
roaring.  This  is  one  of  the  dangers  of  a  sealer's  life ;  and  no 
peril  of  storm  or  wreck  is  more  dreaded  by  the  fishermen  than 
these  "  blind  breakers,"  unless  it  is  the  sudden  looming  of  a 
steamer's  sides  above  them  in  the  fog. 

While  paddling  in  this  way  over  a  smooth,  almost  silent  sea, 
suddenly  a  little  group  of  gulls  dashes  across  the  opening  in  "the 
fog,  screaming  wildly  and  hurrying  at  top  speed.  Behind  them, 
silent  but  swifter  of  wing,  darts  a  blackish  bird  of  medium  size. 
We  may  see  a  glimpse  of  yellowish  about  the  throat  and  catch 
sight  of  its  tail,  carried  fully  spread,  with  the  two  middle  tail 
feathers  sticking  out  beyond  all  the  rest  but  held  close  to  each 
other.  The  Indians  call  it  the  "  gull-hawk,"  because  it  chases 
the  gulls  as  hawks  do  smaller  land-birds.  Indeed,  he  resembles 
a  hawk  not  only  in  his  habits,  but  in  his  bill,  which  is  hooked 
at  the  tip  and  provided  with  a  cere,  or  waxy  plate,  at  the  base. 
This  bill  serves  at  once  to  distinguish  him  from  all  the  gulls 
and  terns  with  which  he  associates.  The  books  call  him  the 
jaegar  (which  means  hunter),  or  the  skua;  the  fishermen 
name  him  the  "  marlingspike,"  from  his  long  middle  tail 


OFF  GRAND  MAN  AN.  21 

feathers.  He  is  the  gull's  robber  cousin,  a  dreaded  foe  of  theirs, 
the  pirate  of  the  sea.  It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  jaegers, 
or  jagers,  from  whom  the  birds  get  their  name,  were  not  peace- 
ful hunters,  but  a  wild  tribe  of  robbers  who  lived  in  Germany 
centuries  ago,  and  got  their  living  by  plunder. 

The  jaeger  well  deserves  the  name  of  pirate.  He  is  perfectly 
able  to  get  his  own  living,  but  all  observers  agree  that  he 
seldom  if  ever  fishes  for  himself,  although  he  is  reported  to 
pick  up  worms  and  mollusks.  It  would  seem  far  easier  to  get 
an  honest  living  than  to  follow  the  trade  he  does,  for  every  fish 
he  obtains  by  robbery  means  a  long  chase. 

The  terns  may  be  fishing  together,  plunging  and  screaming, 
without  thought  of  interruption,  when  suddenly  this  black  rob- 
ber, swift  and  silent,  is  seen  among  the  flock,  following  the  one 
that  has  just  caught  a  fish.  If  the  fish  is  already  swallowed  it 
makes  no  difference  to  him,  and  he  never  mistakes  an  empty  bird 
for  a  full  one. 

How,  when  he  appears  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly,  he  can 
always  tell  just  which  birds  have  been  successful,  has  been  a 
puzzle  to  observers,  but  it  seems  easily  answered.  There  is  no 
panic  except  among  the  terns  that  have  just  caught  fish,  and 
perhaps  their  terror  reveals  their  secret  to  the  pirate's  quick 
eye.  Having  once  selected  his  victim,  he  pursues  that  one  and 
no  other,  flying  now  above  him,  now  beneath  him,  threatening 
him  with  his  bill  until  the  frightened  tern  at  last  disgorges 
what  he  has  eaten,  and  the  victorious  jaeger  snatches  it  up  as 
his  prize.  So  quick  is  he  that  he  often  catches  the  coveted 
morsel  before  it  can  reach  the  water. 

The  jaeger  is  not  a  mild  or  a  docile  bird.  His  disposition 
is  naturally  fierce  and  his  temper  intractable.  Something  in 
his  look,  aside  from  the  hooked  beak,  reminds  us  of  the  birds 
of  prey.  Therefore  it  is  probable  that,  loving  the  chase  for  its 


22  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

own  sake,  and  for  the  excitement  it  brings,  the  jaeger  has  taken 
up  his  parasitic  habits,  not  because  they  secure*  him  an  easier 
livelihood,  but  because  they  gratify  his  love  of  the  chase. 

One  very  curious  fact  which  characterizes  some  families  of 
sea-birds,  but  is  rarely  observed  of  the.  land-birds,  must  be 
noted  of  the  jaegers.  The  species  have  two  different  colora- 
tions or  "color-phases."  Some  birds  will  be  dark  all  their 
lives,  others  will  be  light-colored  for  life.  They  are  the  same 
bird  in  everything  but  color,  although  some  are  almost  as 
light  as  a  sea-gull,  and  some  look  nearly  black.  The  light 
birds  much  resemble  gulls,  except  in  having  more  or  less  pale 
yellow  about  the  throat  and  head,  a  darker  upper  surface  which 
is  not  a  "  mantle,"  as  in  the  gulls,  but  extends  down  over  the 
rump  and  tail  end,  and  a  dark  crown,  which  no  gull  has.  The 
elongated  middle  tail  feathers  are  a  sure  mark,  as  is  also  the 
habit  of  carrying  the  tail  spread.  The  dark  phase  is  a  sooty 
brown,  sometimes,  but  not  always,  with  a  little  yellow  about 
the  head.  The  younger  birds  are  mottled  brown  and  white. 

There  are  three  species  of  jaegers  found  in  the  United  States, 
and  while  not  often  seen,  even  offshore,  they  sometimes  travel 
in  winter  far  to  the  south  along  the  coast,  and  are  occasionally 
seen  about  the  Great  Lakes  and  down  the  Mississippi  Valley, 
always  the  same  bold  pirates  that  we  met  off  Grand  Manan. 


THE   HERRING   GULL. 

"  The  low  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush  of  the  sea  at  flood, 
Through  inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from  dike  to  upland  wood ; 
The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the  fish-hawk's  rise  and  fall, 
The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moon-shine,  over  the  dark  coast-wall." 

—  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEK,  Marguerite. 

THE  best  known  of  all  sea  gulls  is  the  herring  gull.  He 
ranges  from  the  warm  regions  in  winter  to  the  Arctic  Circle 
in  summer,  inland  and  coastwise,  in  both  eastern  and  western 
hemispheres. 

On  the  Pacific  the  American  herring  gull  is  duplicated  by  a 
relative,  so  nearly  similar  in  size  and  color  that  only  a  scientist 
could  mark  the  difference,  and  he  associates  with  the  Western 
gull,  of  the  same  size  and  appearance  but  with  a  slightly  darker 
mantle. 

Even  those  who  live  in  the  largest  cities  know  the  herring 
gull  as  he  flies  up  and  down  the  channels  among  the  shipping, 
or  floats  lightly  in  the  city  reservoirs,  a  winter  visitor  who 
finds  it  easier  to  make  a  living  near  city  wharves  than  in  the 
open  sea.  In  summer  he  is  up  and  away,  far  to  the  North,  to 
the  ledges  along  the  coast  of  Maine  and  Labrador,  or  to  the 
Great  Lakes  in  the  interior.  Along  the  Maine  coast,  however, 
there  is  usually  an  abundance  of  herring  gulls  in  summer,  and 
at  one  place  their  numbers  have  become  a  proverb.  "  As  thick 
as  the  gulls  at  Eastport "  is  not  an  uncommon  saying  for  num- 
bers beyond  computation. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  beautiful  sight  at  times  to  see  the  immense 
numbers  of  gulls  that  'throng  "Quoddy  Bay,"  as  Passama- 

23 


24  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

quoddy  Bay,  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Maine,  is  usually  called  by 
the  people  living  coastwise.  The  sun  shining  on  them  lights 
every  bird,  so  that  even  when  two  miles  away  you  can  see  them 
filling  the  air  like  a  snowstorm,  rising,  falling,  hovering,  set- 
tling, a  cloud  of  white  flakes.  There  may  be  ten  thousand, 
or  there  may  be  a  hundred  thousand  of  them,  but  the  mind 
does  not  grasp  the  number,  and  any  estimate  is  a  guess. 
Nearer  to  the  flock,  instead  of  a  cloud  of  silent  white  flakes, 
we  discover  a  busy,  screaming  tangle  of  birds,  each  intent  on 
looking  out  for  himself.  All  is  excitement,  and  their  enormous 
appetites  make  them  able  to  find  fun  in  their  fishing  long  after 
it  would  seem  they  must  be  gorged  with  food. 

The  gentle  little  Bonaparte's  gull  loves  to  sit  and  rest  on 
the  water  for  long  intervals;  the  kittiwake  will  often  float 
and  eat  "what  is  floating  beside  him;  but  the  herring  gull, 
when  in  large  flocks,  is  nervous  and  fierce,  and  rarely  rests 
long,  but  takes  its  prey  while  on  the  wing,  patting  the  water 
with  its  feet,  arching  its  neck  down  to  the  water  level  while 
its  uplifted  wings  hold  it  steady  above  the  waves.  Unlike 
the  terns  the  gulls  do  not  dive.  While  there  usually  are  ex- 
ceptions to  all  rules,  it  is  almost  certain  that  an  uninjured 
herring  gull  never  dives. 

If  you  were  to  ask  what  brings  these  great  numbers  of 
gulls  together,  and  I  were  to  tell  you  that  the  tides  do 
it,  the  answer,  though  correct,  would  seem  frivolous.  The 
tides  of  Eastport  are  the  highest  of  any  place  upon  the  sea- 
coast  of  the  United  States  —  twice  as  high  as  those  of  Bos- 
ton, five  times  those  of  New  York,  and  seven  times  those  of 
San  Francisco. 

In  filling  and  emptying  this  great  bay  twice  a  day  through 
narrow  channels,  tremendous  whirlpools  and  currents  are 
formed,  and  immense  quantities  of  fish  are  borne  back  and 


THE  HERRING  GULL.  25 

forth  with  the  tides.  Incalculable  numbers  of  little  herring 
are  swept  along,  and  these  are  followed  by  the  -larger  fish  and 
by  the  gulls  that  feed  upon  the  herring.  At  times  the  water 
boils  with  the  rushes  of  great  armies  of  young  herring  try- 
ing to  escape  their  enemies,  while  the  pollock  striking  them 
from  below  or  leaping  out  of  the  water,  until  the  sea  seems 
planted  with  fishes  standing  on  their  heads,  and  the  screaming 
gulls  dipping  from  above  to  seize  the  little  fish  as  the  pollock 
drive  them  up,  make  a  scene  not  soon  forgotten. 

Nor  are  the  birds  and  fishes  the  only  enemies  the  little 
herring  have  to  fear.  Thousands  of  hogsheads  of  them  are 
taken  in  the  nets  of  the  fishermen  and  become  sardines  in  oil 
or  sardines  in  mustard.  The  chief  industry  of  the  towns  upon 
Quoddy  Bay  is  packing  sardines. 

The  gulls  nest  both  inland  and  along  the  ocean  shore. 
While  canoeing  on  the  great  lakes  of  Maine,  I  have  found 
their  nests  on  the  ledges  far  out  from  shore.  The  prettiest 
were  little  rims  of  reindeer  moss  laid  upon  a  bed  of  the  same 
dainty  material,  surrounding  three  dark  eggs,  larger  than  a 
hen's  eggs,  blotched  with  darker  brown.  Along  the  seacoast 
the  nest  is  made  of  dried  seaweed.  It  is  the  habit  of  gulls 
to  nest  upon  the  ground,  but  when  robbed  and  persecuted, 
they  both  build  and  roost  in  trees. 

The  herring  gull  is  one  of  our  wariest  and  most  suspicious 
birds,  its  only  superior  in  these  traits  being  the  great  black- 
backed  gull,  which  can  scarcely  be  snared,  trapped,  shot,  or 
poisoned.  So  alert  are  the  black-backed  gulls  that  even  the 
wary  black  ducks,  themselves  among  the  shyest  and  most 
cautious  of  birds,  sometimes  have  a  black-backed  gull  act  as 
sentinel  for  them,  and  warn  them  of  danger  while  they  sleep 
or  feed. 

When  Pau-Puk-Keewis,  in  the  story  of  Hiawatha,  kills  the 


26  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR  HOMES. 

birds,  and  flings  their  bodies  down  the  crag,  it  is  Kayoshk, 
the  sea  gull,  that  discovers  them  and  gives  the  alarm. 

"  Till  at  once  Kayoshk,  the  sea  gull, 
Perched  upon  a  crag  above  them, 
Shouted :  *  It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 
Send  a  message  to  our  brother, 
Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  ! '" 

The  poet  makes  a  mistake  when  he  says  that  the  gull  makes 
his  outcry  "  from  a  crag  " ;  it  is  his  custom  to  give  the  alarm 
on  the  wing. 

But  nothing  could  be  more  appropriate  than  choosing  the 
sea  gull  to  raise  the  alarm.  Many  a  time  the  Indian  seal- 
hunter  creeping  over  the  tide-ledges  of  the  bay,  with  every 
advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  hears  the  harsh  scream  of  a  gull 
or  tern  flying  over,  and  curses  Kayoshk  for  betraying  him. 
Every  bird  and  beast  about  the  seashore  knows  that  warning, 
just  as  in  the  woods  every  creature  halts  and  scurries  off  when 
the  little  chipmunk  raises  his  sharp  alarm.  "A  man !  a  man ! " 
he  seems  to  say ;  "  run !  run !  a  man ! "  and  the  old  crow, 
flapping  over,  adds  gruffly,  "Go!  go!  go!"  Thus  it  is  that 
the  birds  and  beasts  stand  guard  for  each  other. 

Again  Longfellow  speaks  of  the  sea  gulls  as  they  work  upon 
the  carcass  of  the  great  sturgeon  within  which  Hiawatha  is 
imprisoned,  and  -in  the  description  we  mark  two  fine  points 
and  one  little  error. 

"  Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling, 
Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 
Saw  a  gleam  of  light  above  him, 
Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea  gulls, 


THE  HERRING   GULL.  27 

Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea  gulls  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
'Tis  our  brother,  Hiawatha  ! 

******* 
And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea  gulls, 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together." 

This  vigorous  and  truthful  picture  is  not  at  all  what  we 
who  are  not  poets  would  have  imagined.  Because  of  its  white- 
ness most  of  us  think  the  gull  the  emblem  of  purity  and 
gentleness,  and  would  not  have  written  — 

"As  of  birds  of  prey  contending." 

Yet  that  just  describes  the  fierceness  and  rapacity  of  sea  gulls. 
Few  of  our  most  savage  hawks  are  more  bloodthirsty  than 
sea  gulls,  just  as  the  crow  is  hardly  more  shrewd  and  ingen- 
ious, and  as  no  bird  is  at  once  so  bold  and  so  wary. 
Nor  is  the  error  in  the  line  — 

"  Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea  gulls  ; " 

for  the  kind  the  poet  is  describing  —  the  kind  he  must  be 
describing,  both  because  his  words  fit  that  and  no  other,  and 
because  it  is  the  gull  he  used  oftenest  to  see  when  he  was  a 
boy  and  man  along  the  Portland  shore  and  up  the  river 
Charles  —  has  yellow  eyes  that  are  as  fierce  and  unflinching  as 
a  hawk's.  (The  eyes  of  young  gulls  and  of  the  smaller  species 
are  brown.) 

But  does  the  gull  work  with  his  feet  ?  Not  unless  he 
braces  with  them  to  get  tearing-hold.  His  nails  are  not  made 
for  scratching,  and  his  thumb  or  fourth  toe  is  too  high  up  on 
his  leg  to  help  him  grasp  any  object.  This  is  the  touch  over- 
much in  the  description,  something  the  poet  remembered  in- 
correctly, or  added  from  his  imagination.  But  there  are  few 
naturalists  equal  to  the  poets. 


28  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR  HOMES. 

When  we  are  at  the  seashore  we  may  be  puzzled  to  see  so 
many  different  kinds  of  gulls.  But  while  there  are  very  many 
species  of  gulls,  it  is  rare  for  more  than  three  or  four  to  be 
seen  in  one  locality,  and  these  may  be  better  distinguished  by 
their  size  than  by  their  colors.  Adult  gulls  are  always  pure 
white,  with  or  without  a  pearl-gray  "  mantle  "  on  the  back  and 
upper  surface  of  the  wings,  and  with  or  without  black  wing- 
tips.  Adult  gulls  never  show  any  other  colors  except  upon 
the  bill  and  feet,  which  may  be  flesh-color,  red,  or  yellow. 
The  only  other  conspicuous  marking  is  a  black  or  dark  gray 
head  which  is  seen  in  some  of  the  smaller  species  during  the 
breeding  season,  and  which  disappears  later. 

Young  gulls  are  more  or  less  brown  according  to  their  age, 
and  the  young  of  some  species  show  a  black  bar  across  the  end 
of  the  tail,  a  black  crescent  between  the  shoulders,  or  a  brown 
mantle.  These  are  all  sure  marks  of  immature  birds. 

The  largest  of  our  common  gulls  is  the  American  herring 
gull,  which  is  seen  on  both  seacoasts,  about  the  Great  Lakes, 
and  near  most  of  the  large  lakes  of  the  interior.  The  Western 
gull  which  largely  replaces  it  upon  the  Pacific  coast,  is  scarcely 
distinguishable  in  life.  Of  the  medium-sized  gulls  —  those 
about  eighteen  inches  long  —  the  kittiwake  of  the  northern 
Atlantic,  the  black-headed  laughing  gull  of  the  southern 
Atlantic,  the  ring-billed  gull  of  the  plains  and  interior 
states,  and  the  beautiful  Heerman's  gull  of  the  Pacific,  with 
its  gray  body,  white  head,  and  red  feet  and  bill,  are  the  more 
conspicuous.  The  black-headed  Franklin's  rosy  gull  of  the 
interior,  often  called  the  "  prairie  dove "  by  the  farmers,  be- 
longs to  the  group  of  small-sized  gulls,  and  the  black-headed 
Bonaparte's  gull  is  a  smaller  bird,  everywhere  well  known, 
both  East,  West,  and  in  the  interior.  However,  we  very  rarely 
see  a  Bonaparte's  gull  with  a  black  head,  as  this  is  the  mark 


THE  HEREIN G   GULL.  29 

of  the  breeding  season  and  is  worn  only  for  a  few  weeks. 
The  Bonaparte's  gull  is  the  common  small  species  of  the 
Atlantic  coast,  so  often  seen  floating  in  large  flocks  on  the 
water. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  distinguish  gulls  from  terns,  which 
somewhat  resemble  them  in  color.  All  our  United  States 
gulls  are  square-tailed  and  blunt-billed,  and  float  on  the  water 
but  never  dive,  while  all  our  terns  are  fork-tailed,  sharp-billed, 
and  dive  from  the  air  but  do  not  float  upon  the  surface.  The 
terns  commonly  have  very  brilliant  red  or  yellow  feet  and 
bills,  and  in  the.  adult  plumage  a  black  cap,  but  never  a  black 
head.  Young  terns  lack  the  cap  but  do  not  show  any  brown 
markings  like  the  young  gulls. 


ON   THE   FARRALONES. 

FEEDING    HABITS    OF    GULLS    ON    THE    PACIFIC    COAST.1 

"  For  of  all  runes  and  rhymes 

Of  all  times, 

Best  like  I  the  ocean's  dirges, 
When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 

His  hoary  locks 

Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges." 
—  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW,  The  Saga  of  King  Olaf. 

THE  Farralones  are  a  group  of  rough  and  barren  islands  thirty 
miles  out  from  San  Francisco.  No  tree  grows  on  them,  and 
scarcely  a  plant,  except  the  long,  spongy  weed  called  Farralone 
weed,  can  hold  its  own  against  the  sea  storms  in  that  infer- 
tile soil.  On  one  of  the  islands  is  a  lighthouse.  No  other 
houses  are  there,  and  few  men  except  those  who  gather  eggs 
for  the  market  ever  visit  the  place. 

Thus  being  comparatively  undisturbed,  birds  nest  here  in 
vast  numbers.  There  are  great  colonies  of  cormorants,  black 
as  midnight,  stretching  up  tfreir  long  necks ;  companies  of 
tufted  puffins  with  their  gay  red  and  green  bills  and  yellow 
ear-plumes  curling  like  a  ram's  horns ;  murres  by  the  myriad, 
lifting  their  brown  necks  above  their  snowy  breasts;  pigeon 
guillemots,  much  like  the  "  sea  pigeon  "  of  the  East ;  Cassin's 
auklets  and  petrels  mingle  with  them  according  tc  their  na- 
tures, solitary  or  in  companies ;  and  everywhere  the  snowy 

i  Facts  drawn  from  Dr.  Walter  E.  Bryant's  "  Birds  of  the  Farralones  "  and 
H.  W.  Taylor's  "  Story  of  the  Farralones." 

30 


ON   THE  FAERALONES.  31 

Western  gull,  in  size  and  color  almost  the  counterpart  of  the 
herring  gull  of  the  East,  stands  his  watch  over  a  nest  that  is 
safer  from  intruders  than  any  of  the  other  nests. 

The  gull  of  the  East  is  a  persecuted  creature.  He  is  robbed 
of  his  eggs ;  he  is  killed  by  gunners  for  his  wings  and  feathers, 
to  put  into  feather-beds  when  they  are  not  put  on  hats ;  he  is 
forced  from  his  chosen  home,  and  is  even  compelled  to  build 
his  nest  in  trees,  contrary  to  his  nature. 

Our  sympathies  are  too  much  with  the  gull  of  the  East  to 
make  us  inquire  if  he  has  faults ;  but  when  we  see  the  gull  of 
the  West,  free,  secure,  little  molested,  we  find  his  honesty  ques- 
tionable and  a  trait  of  low  cunning  highly  developed.  The 
sea  gull  is  so  like  our  old  friend  the  crow  in  his  boldness, 
impudence,  and  intelligence,  that  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  he  is 
honest  only  under  compulsion ;  and  that  the  Western  gull  acts 
out  his  real  nature  while  the  Eastern  one  lacks  opportunity. 

As  soon  as  the  breeding  season  opens  the  gulls  begin  repair- 
ing their  old  nests,  which  are  large,  comfortable  affairs,  made 
of  the  dry,  ravelled  Farralone  weed.  At  the  very  outset  they 
show  their  nature  ;  for  they  steal  their  materials  from  the 
cormorants  that  nest  near  them.  The  cormorant  is  heavy, 
long-necked,  ill-balanced,  and  awkward,  so  that  picking  up 
nesting  stuff  is  hard  work  for  him,  while  the  active  gulls  can 
gather  it  as  readily  as  any  land-birds. 

In  their  feeding  we  find  the  gulls  eating  their  own  honestly 
earned  fish  and  crabs  and  sea-urchins,  and  also  the  fish  that 
they  steal  from  the  nests  of  the  cormorants.  Not  content 
with  this,  they  eat  the  cormorants'  eggs,  and  later  in  the  season 
their  black,  bare-skinned,  greasy-looking  babies.  It  is  almost 
incredible  that  a  bird  so  spotless  and  dainty  in  its  appearance 
can  have  so  black  a  heart,  but  live  young  cormorant  is  part 
of  the  gull's  bill  of  fare. 


32  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR  HOMES. 

When  the  cormorants'  eggs  are  all  hatched,  and  the  gull 
still  wishes  to  mix  a  little  egg  with  his  diet,  he  torments  the 
murres.  Now  the  murres  are  foolish  birds  that  bow  their 
long,  brown  necks  and  silly  heads  continually,  and  grunt 
harshly,  but  they  love  their  one  big,  pear-shaped  egg.  Always 
one  or  the  other  stays  by  it,  hugging  it  between  his  or  her 
long  thighs  and  brooding  over  it.  For  all  their  folly  they 
know  enough  not  to  trust  a  gull.  As  they  are  more  than  half 
the  size  of  the  gulls,  the  gulls  prefer  stratagem  to  force.  A 
number  of  them  combine  to  attack  the  murre  in  concert,  and 
so  harass  and  frighten  her  that  she  tries  either  to  escape  or  to 
confront  them.  This  is  the  gull's  opportunity.  The  big  egg 
must  be  exposed  for  a  moment.  While  the  rest  keep  up  their 
clamor  and  feigned  attacks,  one  of  the  gulls  steals  in  and 
seizes  the  egg  in  his  bill.  It  must  be  a  very  large  mouthful, 
for  a  murre's  egg  is  much  larger  than  a  hen's  egg,  and  the 
gull's  bill  is  but  little  over  two  inches  long.  He  breaks  the 
egg  by  rolling  it  about  the  rocks  until  dented  by  rough  usage, 
after  which  he  sucks  its  contents.  Not  only  do  the  gulls 
rob  the  birds,  but  they  rob  the  eggers.  Unless  the  heaps  of 
eggs  which  the  eggers  pile  up  are  covered  very  closely,  the 
gulls  will  work  their  way  under  the  cloths  and  carry  off  every 

egg. 

But  eggs  are  not  all  their  plunder.  They  just  as  willingly 
take  the  live  young  murres  or  a  dead  old  bird.  And  they 
have  a  particular  fondness  for  young  rabbits.  They  will  sit 
and  watch  by  the  rabbit  burrows  an  hour  waiting  for  the 
little  rabbit  to  come  out,  and  then  will  work  fifteen  minutes 
in  trying  to  swallow  him. 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF  THE  JUNK  0'   POEK. 
LEACH'S  PETREL. 

"  Well,  ah  fare  you  well,  and  it's  Ushant1  gives  the  door  to  us, 
Whirling  like  a  windmill  on  the  dirty  scud  to  lea : 
Till  the  last,  last  nicker  goes 
•From  the  tumbling  water-rows, 
And  we're  off  to  Mother  Carey 
(Walk  her  down  to  Mother  Carey  !) 

Oh,  we're  bound  for  Mother  Carey  where  she  feeds  her  chicks  at  sea  !  " 
—  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  Anchor  Song. 

NEAR  the  entrance  to  Casco  Bay,  on  the  coast  of  Maine, 
close  by  the  route  of  steamers  going  into  Portland,  is  a 
curious  island  which  never  fails  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  tourist.  At  low  tide  it  may  show  half  an  acre,  but  at 
high  water  there  appears  only  a  bluff-sided  island  perhaps 
twenty-five  feet  above  the  sea  and  forty  feet  in  length, 
slightly  curving,  and  on  top  bare  of  house,  or  tree,  or  bush, 
but  green  with  short  grass.  Some  facetious  sailor  in  years 
gone  by,  remembering  the  fat  "rounds"  that  were  always 
kept  in  the  pickle  barrel  of  the  farm-houses,  called  it  the 
"  Junk  o'  Pork."  It  looks  very  much  like  a  piece  of  fat  pork, 
twice  as  long  as  it  is  thick,  lying  rind  toward  you.  The  little 
island  is  uninhabited,  and  almost  inaccessible  by  man.  A  few 
years  since,  and  probably  it  is  the  same  to-day,  all  that  lived 

1  An  island  off  the  coast  of  France,  whose  lighthouse  is  the  last  sighted 
as  the  ship  steers  out  into  the  Atlantic. 
D  33 


34  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

on  it  were  birds  and  field-mice ;  and  chief  among  the  birds 
were  the  Leach's  petrel,  which  fifty  years  ago  was  found 
on  all  our  outer  islands. 

The  Scotch  have  a  pretty  way  of  speaking  of  fairies  as 
"  the  good  people "  or  "  the  little  people,"  to  win  their  good- 
will; and  when  we  recollect  the  superstitious  respect  all 
seafaring  folk  have  for  the  petrels,  or  "  Mother  Carey's 
chickens,"  it  seems  quite  fitting  to  give  them  the  same  title. 
That  there  are  to-day  few  petrels  breeding  where  there  used 
to  be  hundreds  is  due  to  city  gunners  and  scientists ;  for  even 
a  few  years  ago  not  a  fisherman  or  island  gunner  anywhere 
along  the  coast  could  be  induced  to  kill  a  petrel  lest  ill-luck 
should  follow. 

These  "little  people"  are  small  and  dark-colored  and  flit 
about  toward  evening  like  little  shadows,  coming  from  and 
going  to  their  nesting-place.  Dusk  and  dawn  are  their  hours 
of  greatest  activity,  though  all  day  long  one  of  the  pair  will 
be  out  at  sea  feeding,  while  its  mate  is  at  home  on  the  nest. 
It  is  the  custom  of  the  petrels  to  lay  their  eggs  in  under- 
ground burrows  about  two  feet  in  depth.  In.  this  dark 
chamber,  when  there  are  eggs  to  be  hatched,  one  bird  sits 
all  day  long  sleeping  and  brooding ;  and  at  evening,  welcom- 
ing her  mate  with  a  harsh-sounding  but  loving  greeting,  she 
changes  places  and  goes  out  to  seek  her  own  food. 

Apparently  the  petrels  see  better  in  the  twilight  than  in 
broad  day,  as  one  might  imagine  from  their  large  full  eyes, 
which  have  a  near-sighted  look,  and  a  pupil  so  large  that  the 
eye  appears  to  be  black,  though  the  iris  really  is  brown. 

There  is  something  wonderfully  soft  and  dove-like  about 
the  petrels.  Their  plumage,  though  dark  colored  and  greasy, 
is  as  full  and  deep  as  a  gull's.  Their  manners  are  gentle  and 
winning,  and  they  do  not  resent  being  handled,  but  look  at 


FIG.  6.  —  PETREL. 


Facing  page  34. 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  JUNK  O'   PORK.      35 

you  with  their  great  round,  liquid  eyes,  or  go  tiptoeing  about 
the  floor  with  an  audible  patter  of  their  soft  feet. 

Having  no  hind  toe,  and  being  unused  to  spreading  their 
feet  upon  a  level  surface,  they  walk  unsteadily  on  the  outer 
joints  of  their  toes,  bending  forward  with  awkward  bobs,  and 
partly  spreading  their  wings  to  balance  themselves.  I  have 
never  seen  one  of  those  I  have  had  in  captivity  try  to  fly, 
though  I  have  had  a  dozen  of  them  at  a  time  moving  about 
like  dusky  little  shadows.  But  for  the  impossibility  of  get- 
ting them  the  proper  food,  and  for  their  rank,  oily  smell,  they 
would  make  pretty  pets. 

All  sea-birds  keep  their  feathers  well  oiled  to  exclude  the 
water,  but  the  petrels  and  their  near  relatives  are  provided 
with  an  oil  that  has  an  odor  quite  unmistakable  and  not 
attractive.  In  addition  to  what  is  used  upon  the  feathers, 
the  Leach's  petrel  has  in  its  stomach  from  a  teaspoonful  to 
a  tablespoonful  of  heavy,  oily  liquid,  exceedingly  limpid  and 
of  an  unpleasant  odor.  He  can  disgorge  this  at  will,  and 
sometimes,  in  captivity  at  least,  becomes  much  bedraggled 
with  it.  The  use  of  this  supply  is  hard  to  determine. 

How  the  petrels  with  their  weak,  webbed  feet,  which  seem 
wholly  unfit  for  such  work,  can  dig  such  holes  in  the  hard 
earth  of  our  outer  islands  is  a  mystery.  Of  course  the  holes 
remain  from  one  year  to  another,  so  that  unless  a  colony  is 
largely  increased  it  is  not  necessary  to  dig  new  ones ;  but  I 
think  they  have  a  helper  whose  services  have  received  little 
credit  in  books.  All  our  outer  islands  are  overrun  with  field- 
mice,  whose  holes  are  found  on  all  sides.  On  landing  on  an 
uninhabited  island,  almost  the  first  thing  one  notices  is  the 
scampering  of  mice  through  the  short  grass.  It  seems  likely 
that  the  petrels  often  take  possession  of  these  mouse-holes, 
enlarging  them  to  meet  their  own  needs. 


36  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR   HOMES. 

The  petrel  lays  but  one  large  white  egg,  and  the  parents,  as 
we  have  said,  share  the  work  of  hatching  it.  Rarely  both 
parents  are  found  in  the  burrow,  and  more  rarely  still  the  egg 
is  found  alone,  yet  it  is  still  unknown  which  parent  takes  the 
responsibility.  With  most  birds  it  is  the  mother  that  cares 
for  the  eggs  and  nestlings;  but  there  are  cases  known,  as 
among  the  phalaropes,  where  the  female  leaves  .all  the  work  to 
her  mate.  With  the  petrels  no  one  knows  certainly  Avhat  hap- 
pens. Some  naturalists  report  that  nearly  all  the  birds  found 
with  eggs  were  females  and  others  that  the  majority  of  those 
they  saw  on  the  nest  were  males. 

Out  of  eighteen  old  birds  that  I  examined  one  season  twelve 
were  males,  and  there  was  a  curious  indication  that  the  male 
did  a  large  share  of  the  work.  Among  sea-birds  it  is  custom- 
ary for  the  female  to  tear  off  a  patch  of  feathers  from  her  body 
just  the  size  of  the  egg,  so  that  the  warmth  of  the  body  may 
heat  the  egg  directly.  Often  the  exact  number  of  eggs  can  be 
told  by  the  number  of  these  "brooding  spots."  It  is  usually 
taken  for  granted  that  the  bird  with  these  incubating  spots  is 
the  female ;  but  in  every  Leach's  petrel  that  I  have  examined 
during  the  breeding  season,  the  male  had  the  "  brooding  spot " 
and  the  female  lacked  it.  However,  we  must  know  more  about 
their  habits  before  we  can  say  that  all  the  housework  is  left 
for  the  male  to  do. 

Often  on  a  sea  voyage,  even  a  short  one,  if  it  take  us  outside 
of  harbors,  one  may  see  the  petrels  following  the  vessel  or 
dancing  over  the  waves  in  little  groups.  Their  flight,  which 
is  graceful  and  easy,  resembles  that  of  a  purple  martin;  and, 
as  the  birds  are  about  the  size  of  swallows  and  dark  colored,  it 
would  be  natural  to  mistake  them  for  swallows  unless  we 
knew  the  habits  of  both  birds. 

When  they  find  food  the  petrels  gather  around,  raising  their 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  JUNK  O'   PORK.      37 

wings  above  their  backs  and  dropping  their  long,  thin  legs. 
They  hold  themselves  stationary  by  fluttering  their  wings  and 
pattering  with  their  webbed  feet,  much  as  a  boy  balances  him- 
self on  a  barrel  by  keeping  both  feet  and  hands  in  motion. 
The  name  "  petrel,"  or  little  Peter,  is  an  allusion  to  St.  Peter's 
attempt  to  walk  upon  the  water.  The  Germans  call  them 
"  Petersvogel,"  or  Peter's  birds,  from  the  same  pretty  conceit. 

Can  we  understand  the  life  of  these  petrels  ?  The  glimpse 
we  have  had  of  them  is  their  one  visit  to  the  land  in  all  the 
year.  After  their  little  chick  is  out  of  the  shell  and  able  to 
go  to  sea,  the  petrel  never  comes  to  shore  again  unless  driven 
in  by  storms.  No  birds  are  so  near  to  the  sailor  in  all  his 
voyages  nor  so  remote  from  the  landsman's  travels  as  the 
petrels  and  their  near  relatives.  Their  peculiar  odor  gives  us 
a  hint  —  and  a  strong  one  —  of  train  oil,  and  whaling  voyages, 
and  long  months  out  of  sight  of  land.  Day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  they  are  alone  upon  the  ocean. 

Picture  to  yourself  the  solemn  loneliness  of  such  a  life.  All 
they  eat  must  come  by  fishing,  or  from  the  ocean  drift,  and 
when  they  drink  it  must  be  salt  water.  They  can  never  alight 
on  anything  more  stable  than  the  rocking  billows.  Does  it 
storm  ?  There  is  no  protection  to  them  from  rain  or  cold  un- 
less they  fly  above  the  storm  or  beyond  it.  They  sleep  on  the 
wing  or  on  the  wave,  homeless  wanderers,  driven  up  and  down 
the  sea  with  no  rest  except  in  motion.  What  a  solitary  life, 
fit  only  for  a  savage  bird  that  hates  man  and  his  own  kind ! 
Yet  these  houseless  and  homeless  creatures  are  more  sociable 
than  solitary,  more  confiding  than  morose;  they  seek  the 
neighborhood  of  ships,  are  easily  caught,  readily  tamed;  and 
the  smaller  kinds  are  gentle  in  disposition,  if  not  affectionate. 
It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  great  ocean,  what  makes  its 
loneliness  and  immensity  so  dear  to  these  little  sailor  birds 


FEEDING   HABITS   OF   THE   FULMARS   OFF   THE 
COAST  OF   SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA.1 

44  Sun,  wind,  and  cloud  shall  not  fail  from  the  face  of  it, 
Stinging,  ringing  spindrift,  nor  the  fulmar  flying  free ; 
And  the  ships  shall  go  abroad 
To  the  glory  of  the  Lord 

Who  heard  the  silly  sailor-folk  and  gave  them  back  their  sea ! " 
—  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  The  Last  Chantey. 

TEN  miles  west  of  Point  Lorn  a,  at  the  entrance  of  San  Diego 
Bay,  is  an  extensive  fishing  bank  extending  parallel  with  the 
coast  for  a  distance  of  several  miles.  This  bank  is  resorted  to 
during  fair  weather  from  October  first  to  March  first  by  the 
San  Diego  fishermen,  who  obtain  large  quantities  of  rock-cod 
there  for  the  markets  of  southern  California.  The  fishing  is 
all  done  in  from  seventy-five  to  one  hundred  fathoms  of  water. 
There  are  often  large  schools  of  small  fish  on  the  surface  which 
attract  great  numbers  of  sea-birds,  including  the  fulmars,  and 
it  is  along  this  bank  that  fulmars  are  to  be  found  if  anywhere 
near  shore. 

Some  time  about  the  last  of  September  ,the  first  of  them 
make  their  appearance,  the  exact  date  being  somewhat  uncer- 
tain and  due  in  a  measure  to  the  food  supply,  and  quite  possi- 
bly also  to  the  weather.  They  are  hardly  what  one  would  call 
gregarious,  although  several  are  often  seen  in  company  flying 
along  in  a  loose,  straggling  flock.  More  often  they  are  seen  in 

1  Abridged,  with  author's  permission,  from  an  article  by  A.  W.  Anthony 
in  The  Auk,  April,  1895. 


FEEDING  HABITS  OF  THE  FULMARS.  39 

flocks  of  black-vented  shearwaters,  one  or  two  in  a  flock  of 
fifty. 

Unlike  the  shearwaters,  however,  they  seldom  pass  a  craft 
without  turning  aside  at  least  to  make  a  circuit  about  it  before 
flying  on.  If  the  vessel  is  a  fishing  sloop,  sounding  on  the 
banks,  the  chances  are  in  favor  of  the  shearwaters  being  forgot- 
ten and  allowed  to  disappear  in  the  distance  while  the  fulmar 
settles  lightly  down  on  the  water  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
fisherman.  The  next  fulmar  that  passes  will,  after  having 
made  the  regulation  circuit,  join  the  first,  until  within  a  few 
minutes  a  flock  of  six  or  eight  of  these  most  graceful  and 
handsome  petrels  have  collected,  dancing  about  on  the  waves 
as  light  and  buoyant  as  corks. 

As  the  lines  are  hauled  up  after  a  successful  sound,  the  long 
string  of  often  twenty  or  thirty  golden-red  fish  is  seen 
through  the  limpid  water  while  still  several  fathoms  down, 
and  great  excitement  prevails.  Any  fulmars  that  have  grown 
uneasy  and  have  started  out  on  the  periodical  circuit  of  the 
craft,  immediately  alight  a  few  yards  to  the  windward.  Those 
that  are  on  the  water  and  have  drifted  away  hasten  to  the 
spot,  with  wings  outspread  and  feet  pattering  along  on  the 
water. 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  in  hauling  up  the  line  one  or 
more  fish  have  become  detached  from  the  hooks ;  such  fish, 
if  loosened  after  having  been  raised  from  twenty  fathoms, 
are  sure  to  rise  to  the  surface  a  few  feet  to  the  windward 
of  the  boat.  The  pressure  of  the  deep  water  being  suddenly 
removed,  the  air  in  the  air-bladder  expands  so  quickly  that 
the  fish  is  greatly  distended,  and  rises  helpless  to  the  surface. 

With  a  hoarse  croak  and  wings  outspread  the  nearest  ful- 
mar pounces  upon  the  unfortunate  cod,  keeping  all  others  at 
bay  with  threatening  beak.  A  few  hasty  snaps  at  the  eyes, 


40  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

or  air-bladder  protruding  from  the  mouth,  convinces  him  that 
codfish  are  tough,  and  the  first  floater,  if  a  large  one,  is  aban- 
doned for  a  moment  for  the  second,  should  there  be  more  than 
one,  or  for  a  snap  at  the  bait  on  the  hooks. 

Their  excitement  by  this  time  has  attracted  the  attention 
of  several  Western  and  American  herring  gulls,  which  hover 
screaming  over  the  sloop,  too  shy  to  attempt  to  touch  the  fish 
while  it  is  so  near.  Another  ocean  wanderer  meantime  has 
arrived ;  a  short-tailed  albatross,  sweeping  along,  has  noticed 
the  commotion  among  his  lesser  brethren,  and  with  a  groan- 
ing note  settles  down  by  the  floating  fish,  keeping  all  trespass- 
ers away  by  a  loud  clattering  of  his  mandibles ;  though  not 
infrequently  a  fulmar  will  dispute  possession  for  some  time 
with  an  albatross  before  leaving  a  fish  he  has  torn  open,  and 
I  think  a  fulmar  will  usually  rout  a  Western  gull  completely. 

In  attacking  a  fish  under  the  above  conditions,  the  eyes  and 
air-bladder  are  first  eaten,  after  which  the  abdomen  is  torn 
open,  if  possible,  and  the  entire  contents  of  the  skin  torn  out 
piecemeal.  I  have,  however,  seen  birds  seated  on  the  water 
by  the  side  of  a  fish  from  which  they  had  eaten  the  eyes, 
though  they  were  unable  to  tear  open  the  tough  skin. 

In  diving  the  fulmars  use  both  feet  and  wings,  the  latter 
only  half  open,  the  primaries  seeming  to  be  used  very  little, 
if  any,  but  kept  drawn  back  with  the  secondaries.  Once 
under  water  they  make  good  headway,  seizing  the  fish,  which 
is  swallowed  immediately  upon  reaching  the  surface. 

Although  mention  has  been  made  of  their  following  fishing 
sloops,  fish  form  a  very  small  part  of  their  diet  while  on  the 
coast.  In  fact  it  is  the  exception.  I  have  never  found  a 
small  fish  in  the  stomachs  of  those  I  have  taken,  nor  have 
I  seen  them  catch  fish  themselves,  though  I  have  no  doubt 
regarding  their  ability  to  do  so,  should  they  fall  in  with  a 


FEEDING  HABITS  OF  THE  FULMARS.  41 

school  of  small  herring  or  anchovies ;  and  from  their  associat- 
ing with  flocks  of  shearwaters  I  infer  that  they  derive  a  part 
of  their  food  from  such  schools  of  small  fry  when  they  are 
common. 

There  is,  however,  a  large  jellyfish  that  is  usually  abun- 
dant along  the  coast  during  the  time  of  the  fulmars'  sojourn, 
and  these  are  never  disregarded  by  the  ever  hungry  birds.  I 
have  often  seen  a  fulmar  sitting  on  the  water  by  the  side  of 
a  jellyfish,  part  of  which  it  had  eaten,  so  filled  that  it  could 
scarcely  move  out  of  the  way  of  the  boat.  I  think  the  ful- 
mars enjoy  a  monopoly  of  this  diet,  for  I  have  never  seen  any 
other  species  eating  it ;  nor  will  gulls,  nor  any  of  the  sea-birds 
that  I  have  observed,  pay  any  attention  to  a  fulmar  that  is 
eating  a  jellyfish,  though  they  all  claim  their  share  if  the 
food  is  of  a  kind  that  they  care  for. 

In  flight  the  fulmars  much  more  resemble  the  shearwaters 
than  the  albatrosses,  though  they  have  the  habit,  common  to  all 
these  families,  of  sailing  over  the  water  at  an  angle  of  about 
forty -five  degrees,  with  the  tip  of  the  lower  wing  but  just 
above  the  waves.  The  wing-beats  are  rapid,  about  as  with 
the  shearwaters ;  and  there  is  at  a  distance  little  to  distinguish 
the  fulmars  in  the  dark  phases  from  the  dark-bodied  shear- 
waters, except  the  shorter,  less  pointed  wings  and  heavier  body 
of  the  fulmars. 

In  rising  from  the  wrater  the  fulmars,  shearwaters,  and  both 
species  of  albatross  found  with  us  (the  black-footed  and  short- 
tailed  albatrosses)  spread  the  ^ngs  and  run  along  the  water 
for  a  distance  to  gain  sufficient  momentum  to  lift  them  clear 
of  the  waves.  The  fulmars  will  almost  invariably*  according 
to  my  observations,  rise  toward  an  approaching  boat;  while 
both  the  shearwaters  and  albatrosses  always  fly  from  any- 
thing disturbing  them,  and  rise  preferably  against  the  wind. 


THE   NEIGHBORHOOD   OF   PERC&1 

GANNETS. 

"  Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannets'  feathers 

On  'Brador's  rocks  are  shed 

And  the  noisy  murres  are  flying 

Like  black  scuds  overhead." 

—  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER,  The  Fishermen. 

You  may  go  with  me  to  the  coast  of  Labrador,  sailing 
among  the  bluff  and  dangerous  islands  off  the  mouth  of  the 
St.  Lawrence  in  a  cold  wind,  a  chilling  fog,  and  a  short,  chop- 
ping sea.  This  was  the  region  that  Jacques  Cartier  visited 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  the  scene  is  not  so  very  different 
now  from  that  he  saw  then.  It  does  not  take  much  imagina- 
tion to  fancy  ourselves  in  his  rude  ship,  beating  up  to  the 
shores  of  this  new-found  and  dangerous  land.  Still  we  find 
the  rough  rocks,  topped  with  dark  evergreens,  stunted  by  the 
cold  winds,  still  the  same  sullen  sea  and  inhospitable  climate, 
and  still  the  hosts  of  gannets  whitening  the  tops  of  the  ledges 
—  "a  great -and  infinite  number  of  gannets  which  are  white 
and  bigger  than  any  geese,"  wrote  Cartier,  "and  which  bite 
even  as  dogs." 

Within  the  Gulf  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  formed  by  the  open 
jaws  of  the  bay  and  the  great  island  of  Newfoundland,  are  the 

1  Pronounced  per-say,  in  two  syllables,  though  the  fishermen  make  but  one 
syllable,  perse. 

42 


THE  NEIGHBORHOOD   OF  PERCE.  43 

breeding-places  of  the  gannets  —  the  Bird  Rocks  of  the  Magda- 
len Island  group  and  Bonaventure  Island  near  the  Isle  Perce 
off  the  north  shore  of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs.  "  Warm  Bay  "  it 
means,  but  we  may  judge  the  warmth  of  the  region  when  the 
first  of  June  sees  the  stunted  little  cattle  dragging  the  wooden 
ploughs  through  ground  hardly  thawed  as  yet,  while  snow- 
drifts still  lie  in  the  fields.  It  is  a  bleak  and  sterile  land, 
pinched  with  cold,  and  chilled  with  vapor  steaming  up  from 
the  melting  icebergs  that  drift  past  in  summer. 

But  sometimes  a  clear  morning  of  midsummer  comes  to  glad- 
den the  poor  fishermen  of  the  coast.  The  sea  is  as  blue  as  the 
sky,  and  as  calm  too ;  the  rough  rocks  and  stunted  trees  bask 
in  sunshine,  and,  a  clear  note  of  color  in  a  scene  usually  too 
gloomy,  shines  out  the- red  mass  of  Perce  Rock. 

Nearly  three  hundred  feet  high,  steep  from  the  sea,  springs 
the  great  Arch  Rock,  inaccessible  except  to  the  birds  that 
cover  it.  A  thousand  feet  long,  and  nearly  a  third  as  wide,  its 
broad  and  nearly  level  top  harbors  myriads  of  birds  that 
scream  and  fish  about.  They  nest  there  by  the  acre,  black  for 
the  cormorants  and  white  for  the  sea-gulls,  sitting  in  colonies 
as  close  as  they  can  huddle ;  and  a  mile  off  is  Bonaventure, 
whose  whiteness  is  the  snowy  backs  of  gannets  that  breed  here 
by  themselves. 

The  great  Arch  Rock,  or  Pierced  Rock,  in  literal  translation, 
gets  its  name  from  a  lofty  arch  like  a  great  doorway  worn 
through  it  near  one  end  —  an  open  door,  as  it  were,  through 
which  boats  may  pass,' and  we  may  see  the  blue  water  beyond. 
Perse  Rock  it  is  called  by  the  fishermen,  who  ignore  the  second 
syllable  in  this  as  they  do  in  the  little  town  of  Perce  (or  Perse) 
which  you  can  find  on  your  maps.  Imagine  the  low  rude  huts 
of  this  hamlet  strewn  about  with  nets,  spars,  lobster  traps,  and 
fishing-gear,  and  the  little  fleet  of  black-hulled,  broad-bowed 


44  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

boats,  with  red,  tanned  sails,  making  ready  at  sunrise  for  a 
day's  fishing.  A  fair  day  is  a  day  of  gladness  in  that  region  ; 
air  and  sea  are  full  of  life. 

At  dawn  the  cormorants  set  out  on  heavy  wings  for  their 
fishing  grounds,  flapping  laboriously  and  stretching  out  their 
long  necks  against  the  flush  of  morning  red,  as  black  them- 
selves  as  midnight  spectres.  To  Gaspe  Bay  and  Baie  Chaleurs 
they  go  a-fishing,  and  with  them  go  the  white  gannets  from 
Bonaventure.  There  is  a  turmoil  of  gulls  clamoring  and  bark- 
ing, and  the  shrill  screams  of  restless  terns,  ever  noisy  and  sus- 
picious, keeping  up  an  incessant  alarm  or -complaint. 

On  the  water  about  the  bases  of  the  crags  little  guillemots 
bob  like  corks,  diving  and  fishing,  and  a  solitary  loon  comes  up 
to  shout  a  prolonged  halloo  to  some  invisible  mate ;  or  a  big 
seal  lifts  above  the  water  like  a  mermaid,  and,  tossing  a  fish  in 
air,  catches  it  as  it  descends  head  foremost  and  swallows  it 
with  a  groan. 

All  day  long  the  gulls  wheel  and  scream  about  the  Great 
Arch  Rock,  the  cormorants  crane  their  long  black  necks  over 
the  beetling  walls,  and  gannets  plunge  about  it ;  but  in  gen- 
eral both  cormorants  and  gannets  prefer  to  go  farther  for  their 
fishing,  to  the  shoal  water  of  the  bays,  where  the  tremendous 
tides  sweep  great  schools  of  fishes  this  way  and  that. 

Neither  of  these  birds  ever  tires  of  fishing  or  can  ever  be 
satisfied  with  eating.  They  will  eat  till  the  tails  of  the  little 
fishes  stick  out  of  the  corners  of  their  mouths  before  they  will 
stop.  There  is  a  record  of  a  cormorant* which  was  seen  to  catch 
and  eat  one  hundred  and  eighty  fishes  in  one  and  a  half  hours, 
or  two  fish  a  minute.  All  fish-eating  birds  have  these  insatia- 
ble appetites,  and  the  amount  they  consume  is  beyond  compu- 
tation, though  it  should  be  said  that  they  do  not  much  disturb 
the  species  most  prized  by  man. 


THE  NEIGHBORHOOD   OF  PERCE.  45 

Gannets  are  not  found  everywhere.  Their  only  breeding- 
places  in  numbers,  if  the  small  breeding-ground  near  Grand 
Manan  has  been  broken  up,  are  in  the  Gulf  of  the  St.  Lawrence, 
although  they  not  infrequently  visit  the  coast  of  Maine,  where 
they  can  be  easily  distinguished  from  gulls  by  their  shape  and 
habits.  Their  bold  and  beautiful  action  on  the  wing  at  once 
calls  attention  to  them,  as  do  their  habits  of  flying  in  lines  and 
plunging  from  the  wing.  Larger,  longer-winged  than  a  gull, 
longer-necked  and  longer-billed,  with  a  longer  tail,  they  naore 
resemble  gigantic  terns  in  their  graceful  flight  and  easy  evolu- 
tions on  the  wing.  A  most  beautiful,  bold,  fierce  bird  is  our 
great  gannet,  with  his  cold,  white  eye,  and  his  taper,  knife- 
edged  bill  that  bites,  not  "  like  a  dog,"  as  Cartier  says,  but  a 
great  deal  worse,  cutting  to  the  bone.  A  terrible  weapon  it  is 
against  man  or  fish,  yet  sometimes  it  brings  the  gannet  to 
grief.  It  used  to  be  the  custom  in  the  Bay  of  Gaspe  to  fasten 
a  dead  fish  to  a  floating  shingle  or  bit  of  driftwood  just  large 
enough  to  buoy  him.  The  gannets,  seeing  the  fish,  and  diving 
like  an  arrow,  often  from  a  great  height,  would  spear  not  only 
the  fish,  but  the  board  as  well,  and  become  victims  to  their  too 
headlong  speed. 

It  is  the  gannet's  peculiar  way  of  diving  that  makes  such  a 
capture  possible.  Most  diving  birds,  if  they  wish  to  dive  deep, 
spring  from  the  water  and  take  a  header  exactly  as  a  boy 
would  do.  The  loon  and  the  cormorant  dive  in  this  way. 
The  gull  fishes  from  the  wing  without  diving.  But  the  tern 
and  gannet  dive  with  a  splash.  The  gannet  is  incomparably 
the  bolder  and  more  expert  of  the  two.  He  hunts  on  the  wing 
at  all  distances  above  the  water,  but  oftenest  at  seventy-five 
or  a  hundred  feet  above  the  surface,  if  the  fish  are  swimming 
deep,  flying  in  straggling  flocks. 

When  a  fish  is  seen  the  gannet  draws  in  his  wings  till  they 


46  WATER-BIEDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

are  nearly  closed,  thus  leaving  little  surface  to  bear  the  body 
up,  and,  throwing  himself  headlong  in  the  air,  he  falls  like 
a  plummet.  Just  above  the  water  the  nearly  closed  wings  are 
flexed  tight  to  the  body  to  remove  all  resistance  to  the  water, 
and,  with  a  slight  splash,  the  gannet  cleaves  the  water  and 
secures  his  prey.  It  is  a  bold  but  wise  plan,  for  any  swimmer 
will  tell  you  that  in  diving  from  a  great  height  it  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  take  a  perpendicular  course  in  order  not 
to  "  knock  the  breath  out  of  one." 

The  gannet  has  a  peculiar  provision  for  his  needs  in  the  abun- 
dant and  very  large  air  cells  which  lie  like  cushions  between 
his  skin  and  his  flesh,  taking  the  place  of  the  fat  layer  which 
we  find  on  most  birds.  It  is  supposed  that  these  break  the  jar 
of  his  plunge  from  so  great  a  height.  When  the  fish  are 
swimming  near  the  surface  the  gannet  alters  his  methods  of 
pursuit,  flies  low,  and  dives  at  a  slant,  knowing  that  he  will  not 
have  to  use  much  force,  nor  sustain  any  great  shock,  in  order 
to  penetrate  the  water  far  enough  to  get  his  prey. 

The  adult  gannet  is  pure  white,  with  black  ends  to  the 
wings  and  a  yellowish  wash  about  the  head,  —  the  only  color 
other  than  black,  white,  and  brown,  it  may  be  remarked,  that 
is  ever  found  on  any  of  the  strictly  seafaring  birds  (the  eider 
drake  only  excepted),  unless  about  their  bills  and  feet. 

The  gannets  of  the  year  are  a  dark  brown,  speckled  with 
white  as  if  by  tiny  snowflakes.  The  baby  gannet  in  the  nest, 
like  the  cormorant's  young,  is  a  naked,  greasy,  helpless  squab, 
very  slow  to  learn  how  to  care  for  itself,  and  therein  entirely 
unlike  the  little  gulls,  terns,  and  ducks,  which  chip  the  shell 
only  to  take  up  active  life  at  once.  The  gannets  are  some  nine 
or  ten  weeks  in  the  nest,  and  at  the  end  of  eight  weeks  are 
still  covered  with  down  and  have  wings  only  feebly  developed. 

So  slowly  do  they  come  to  the  possession  of  their  wonderful 


THE  NEIGHBORHOOD  OF  PERCE.  47 

powers  of  flight  that  we  are  reminded  of  Hans  Christian 
Andersen's  tale  of  the  discouragements  that  befell  the  ugly 
duckling  which  was  after  all  born  a  swan. 

What  they  are  at  their  prime  we  can  best  learn  from  the 
words  of  Mr.  William  Brewster,  one  of  our  most  distinguished 
naturalists,  who  describes  them  as  he  saw  them,  "  floating  idly 
on  the  blue  sea ;  skimming  close  to  the  waves  in  the  teeth  of 
a  stiff  breeze;  hovering  excitedly  over  schools  of  capelin, 
among  which  they  plunged  with  fierce  energy ;  and  at  evening 
stringing  out  in  long  lines  against  the  sunset  sky,  as  they 
flapped  their  way  homeward  to  the  rookery.  But  most  vivid 
of  all  is  the  recollection  of  their  presence  on  a  certain  occasion 
when  our  vessel  was  overtaken  by  a  squall  in  the  middle  of  the 
Gulf.  At  the  height  of  the  confusion,  when  the  voices  of  the 
men  struggling  to  take  in  sail  were  drowned  by  the  rush  of 
the  wind,  and  the  sea,  a  moment  before  so  calm,  was  furrowed 
by  furious  gusts,  overhead,  against-  the  black  storm  clouds, 
where  lightning  flashed  and  thunder  rolled  incessantly,  a  score 
of  the  majestic  birds  sailed ;  calm,  impassive,  emotionless, 
breasting  the  gale  as  easily  as  if  it  were  the  gentlest  summer 
breeze.  How  often  must  such  a  group  have  been  the  sole 
witnesses  of  still  wilder  scenes,  when  vessels  less  fortunate 
than  ours  have  foundered  and  sunk  with  all  on  board." 


A  CYPRESS   SWAMP. 

THE    ANHINGA. 

"Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  of  the  cypress 
Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  the  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air 
Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar  trees  returning  at  sunset, 
Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac  laughter. 7> 
—  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW,  Evangeline. 

To  Florida  next,  the  home  of  the  herons  and  that  strange 
cousin  of  the  gannet  and  the  cormorant,  the  darter,  or  anhinga, 
or  snake-bird,  or  water-turkey. 

The  cypress  swamp  is  the  home  of  these  birds,  who  build 
their  nests  among  the  hummocks.  To  seek  them  we  must 
have  a  boat ;  for  these  swamps  are  vast  morasses  largely  over- 
flowed in  the  rainy  part  of  the  year,  and  always  threaded  with 
black,  winding  creeks  full  of  alligators  and  poisonous  water- 
snakes. 

The  .scene  is  semi-tropical.  Vegetation  luxuriates.  The 
trees  grow  so  tall  and  are  so  thickly  leaved  that  the  sun  is 
shut  out ;  and  beneath  the  canopy  of  their  tops,  among  the 
great  gray  trunks  which  rise  like  pillars,  there  is  a  gloom,  so- 
lemnity, and  grandeur  like  that  of  some  many-columned  cathe- 
dral, religiously  quiet  and  dim.  The  cypress  trees,  rising  from 
the  water,  among  large-leaved  water-plants,  grow  to  gigantic 
size,  and  are  draped  with  banners  of  the  hanging  gray  tilland- 
sia,  which  we  know  as  "  Spanish  moss,"  or  with  air-plants  that 
trail  their  tendrils  and  blossoms  from  trunk  aiid  branches. 

48 


FIG.  8.  — ANH1NGA. 


Facing  page  48. 


A   CYPRESS  SWAMP.  49 

Here  and  there  the  land  rises  a  little  above  the  level  of  the 
water  into  green  mounds  called  "  hummocks,"  where  grow  scat- 
tered palmettoes,  waving  their  palm-like  crests  above  the  sur- 
rounding trees.  Here  the  great  ivory-billed  woodpecker,  the 
largest  and  most  beautiful  of  his  race,  may  perhaps  be  heard 
knocking  with  his  great  white  beak  to  rout  out  the  palmetto- 
borer.  In  the  fringe  of  buttonwood,  and  pther  brush  about 
the  edges  of  the  hummocks,  herons  breed,  or  did  breed  before 
they  were  so  nearly  exterminated  for  millinery.  There  was  a 
time  when  hundreds  and  thousands  of  them  —  the  great  blue 
Ward's  heron,  nearly  like  our  largest  heron  of  the  North,  the 
medium-sized  reddish  egret,  the  little  blue  heron,  and  the 
little  white  egret,  with  the  whole  tribe  of  night  herons 

—  used    to    be    here   in    countless    numbers,   building  their 
loose  platforms  of  sticks  among  the  branches,  and  keeping 
their  awkward  guard  over  the  beautiful  blue-green  eggs  and 
squabby  young.     What  a  clamor  rose !     What  a  smell  of  de- 
cayed fish  from  the  fragments  dropped  beneath  the  nests !    A 
few  remnants  of  the  former  host  remain  still  and  breed  in  the 
bushes.     The  fish-crows  lurk  about  picking  up  the  leavings  on 
the  ground,  or  stealing  an  egg  or  a  young  heron  from  the  nest 
when  they  can.     The  boat-tailed  grackle,  —  the  "jackdaw  "  of 
the   South,  —  croaks   in   the   willows,   and  a   Florida  white- 
breasted  nuthatch,  inspecting  the  larger  trees,  threads  his  way 
up  and  down,  indifferent  which  end  of  him  is  uppermost.     It 
may  be  that  a  flock  of  white  ibises,  distinguished  from,  the 
white  herons  by  their  black  wing-tips  and  outstretched  necks, 
a  roseate  spoon-bill,  —  the    "pink  curlew"  of  the  South,    a 
great  bald-headed  wood  ibis,  —  locally  known  as  a  "  gannet," 

—  or  a  hoarse-voiced  brown  crane  will  pass  by  where  they 
can  be  seen  through  the  tree-tops. 

And  off  in  the  distance,  low  down  among  the  water-plants 


50  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

or  on  the  plashy  border  of  the  hummock,  one  hears  the  melan- 
choly mourning  of  that  gigantic  rail,  the  limpkin  or  courlan,  a 
curious  brown  and  white  striped  bird,  not  exactly  rail  and 
hardly  a  crane,  whose  doleful  wailing  gives  it  the  local  name 
of  the  "crying  bird"  or  "  mourning  widow." 

Among  such  neighbors  lives  the  anhinga,  the  cousin  of  the 
gannet  and  the  cormorant  of  the  rocks.  Seeing  them  side  by 
side  you  would  not  admit  the  relationship  until  you  looked  at 
their  feet.  For  while  the  gannet  is  shapely  and  graceful,  a 
heavy  bird  strongly  built,  this  slender  relative  looks  as  if  he 
were  patched  up  out  of  the  pieces  left  over  after  all  the  other 
totipalmate  birds  were  made.  They  are  alike,  however,  in 
both  having  the  webbing  of  their  feet  extend  along  the  inner 
side  of  the  foot,  from  the  hind  toe  to  the  inner  front  toe, 
which  gives  them  three  webs  instead  of  two,  like  ducks  and 
other  swimming  birds. 

The  anhinga  has  a  long  neck,  excessively  slender,  drawn 
out  into  a  sharp  and  slender  bill;  a  light,  long,  thin  body; 
wings  like  great  fans ;  fully  webbed  feet  apparently  unfit  for 
tree-perching,  and  a  great,  stiff  tail,  like  corrugated  sheet-iron. 
His  color  is  inconspicuous  — black  for  the  ground  color,  usu- 
ally glossed  with  green  reflections,  with  gray  stripes  down  the 
shoulders.  The  female  has  a  brown  neck  and  breast. 

Concealment  is  easy  for  the  anhinga.  The  cypress  swamp 
is  full  of  gloomy,  half-lighted  corners,  and  his  black  and 
slender  figure  fits  into  shadowy  recesses  of  the  forest  swamp. 
Even  the  light  stripes  on  his  back,  though  they  look  conspicu- 
ous, are  a  protection  to  him,  resembling  as  they  do  the  ridges 
on  the  cypress  bark  with  their  light  tops  and  darker  grooves 
between. 

But  the  snake-bird  does  not  rely  entirely  upon  his  color  for 
protection.  When  alarmed  he  drops  quietly  from  his  perch, 


A   CYPRESS  SWAMP.  51 

and  the  water  closes  over  him  without  a  ripple.  If  he  is 
floating  high,  according  to  his  custom  when  undisturbed,  he 
will  disappear  like  a  grebe,  sinking  in  the  exact  spot  where 
he  has  been  floating.  He  can  swim  at  any  depth.  Some- 
times the  whole  long  neck  will  be  above  the  surface,  rising 
from  the  black  3wamp  water  like  some  venomous  serpent, 
whence  the  name  of  "  snake-bird."  Often  only  the  bill  is  put 
up  for  breathing,  and  for  a  considerable  time  he  can  swim 
under  water  without  coming  up  to  breathe. 

In  common  with  many  other  birds,  the  anhinga  can  fly 
under  water,  and  will  at  times  rise  from  the  water-flight 
into  the  air-flight  without  a  break  in  the  motion.  We  would 
hardly  expect  that  a  bird  so  expert  in  the  water  would  fly 
strongly  and  well,  but  the  snake-bird  is  easy  on  the  wing ;  and 
when  seen  with  its  broad  wings  and  tail  extended,  and  its 
slender  neck  and  body  lying  between  the  three  nearly  equal 
lobes,  it  looks,  as  one  observer  says,  "  like  an  ace  of  clubs  on 
the  wing." 

Fishing  in  these  dark  waters,  flying  over  the  hummocks, 
sitting  with  wings  half  outstretched  to  dry,  in  social  little 
groups,  or  caring  for  their  blue  eggs  in  their  nest  that  is 
always  built  overhanging  the  water,  the  anhinga  is  a  bird  of 
the  swamps,  and  may  be  seen  only  in  some  such  place  as  we 
have  described. 


THE   LIFE   HISTORY   OF   THE   AMERICAN 
FLAMINGO.1 

MY  first  experience  with  these  birds  was  in  the  winter  of 
1884-85.  We  were  east  of  the  easternmost  Cape  Sable,  the 
extreme  south  point  of  Florida,  when  late  in  the  afternoon  we 
entered  a  bay  about  seven  by  fifteen  miles  in  extent,  almost 
every  rod  of  which  was  shallow  enough  to  be  waded  by  the 
flamingo. 

The  bottom  largely  consisted  of  a  soft,  sticky  clay,  as  though 
composed  of  fine  particles  of  disintegrated  coral,  so  soft  that 
with  one  hand  I  could  set  a  pole  two  fathoms  down  into  the 
mud,  and  so  sticky  that  one  cannot  wash  the  mud  from  any- 
thing without  rubbing  it.  Although  the  water  in  these  bays 
is  so  shallow,  much  of  it  being  not  above  eighteen  inches  deep, 
it  is  so  permeated  with  this  soft  white  mud,  which  is  stirred 
up  by  the  action  of  the  wind,  that  it  is  impossible  to  see  the 
bottom,  and  after  a  day  or  two  of  more  than  usually  heavy 
wind  the  whole  bay  reminds  one  of  a  large  bowl  of  milk. 

When  about  halfway  across  this  bay  —  it  being  ebb-tide  — 
our  boat  stuck  in  the  mud  and  we  could  go  no  farther.  After 
lowering  sail,  I  climbed  to  the  mast-head  to  learn  if  anything 
could  be  seen.  Almost  to  the  east  of  us,  where  the  setting  sun 
reflected  the  light  to  the  best  advantage,  was  a  long  line  of 
red  extending  fully  a  half  mile,  reminding  one  of  a  prairie  fire 
at  night. 

1  Abridged,  by  the  author's  permission,  from  Captain  D.  P.  Ingraham's 
"Observations  on  the  American  Flamingo,"  a  paper  presented  before  the 
World's  Congress  on  Ornithology,  1893. 

52 


FIG.  9.  —  FLAMINGOES. 


Facing  page  52. 


LIFE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  FLAMINGO.      53 

I  doubt  whether  De  Soto  felt  any  more  pride  when  he  first 
saw  the  broad  waters  of  the  Mississippi  than  I  did  at  the  sight 
before  me.  I  took  off  my  hat  and  swung  it,  and  shouted/ 
"  The  flamingoes  !  the  flamingoes  ! "  It  was  then  that  I  first 
recognized  the  import  of  the  nafne  "  flamingo,"  —  flame-colored. 
The  flock  was  fully  four  miles  away,  and  consisted  of  not 
less  than  twenty-five  Hundred  birds.  I  had  spent  fully  two 
months  each  of  the  two  preceding  years  to  find  these  birds ; 
and  I  now  felt  I  almost  had  them  in  my  grasp  —  vain  delusion. 

For  six  successive  days  each  week,  and  for  six  successive 
weeks,  did  we  devise  every  plan  that  we  could  conceive  of, 
every  day  looking  out  upon  that  beautiful  flock  of  not  less 
than  twenty-five  hundred  birds.  In  all  that  time  we  could 
never  get  within  eight  hundred  yards  of  them.  Then  our 
water  supply  became  exhausted,  and  we  set  sail  for  Key  West, 
about  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  away,  for  new  supplies ; 
and  thus  ended  the  flamingo  campaign  of  1884. 

The  bird  is  related  to  the  Anatidce,  or  duck  family,  crush- 
ing its  food  between  the  mandibles,  and  sifting  out  such 
portions  as  it  does  not  wish  to  swallow,  as  does  the  duck. 
This  leads  the  natives  in  the  West  Indies  to  say  that  the 
flamingo  lives  on  dirt.  Its  food  is  small  mollusks,  crusta- 
ceans, and  other  marine  animals  gathered  from  the  mud.  The 
peculiar  shape  of  the  beak  is  specially  adapted  to  its  manner 
of  feeding.  With  its  long  legs  to  wade,  and  its  long  neck  to 
reach  down  into  the  water  to  collect  its  food,  it  brings  the 
upper  portion  of  the  upper  mandible  directly  on  the  bottom, 
so  that  it  may  be  almost  literally  said  to  stand  on  its  head 
when  it  eats. 

It  is  very  interesting  to  see  a  flock  feeding,  especially  when 
the  bottom  chances  to  be  a  little  hard,  so  that  they  have  to  dig 
their  food  out  from  the  earth.  The  water  prevents  their 


54  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

scratching  like  a  fowl,  but  they  go  through  the  same  motions, 
only  not  so  fast;  and  as  their  long  legs  go  up  and  down  it  re- 
minds one  of  a  regiment  of  soldiers  marking  time.  After  they 
have  stirred  up  the  earth  for  a  while,  they  put  their  heads 
down  into  the  water,  gather  up  the  results  of  their  labor,  and 
then  "mark  time"  again,  constantly  swinging  around  and 
gathering  the  earth  up  into  a  mound.  When  they  are  through, 
there  will  frequently  be  a  mound  five  or  six  inches  high  and 
three  or  four  feet  across. 

The  nesting  habits  of  the  flamingo  are  peculiar.  They  nest 
in  great  colonies,  and  when  not  disturbed  occupy  the  old  nests 
the  following  year,  —  not  perhaps  the  same  bird  using  its  own 
nest  of  the  former  year,  but  the  colony  as  a  whole  occupying 
the  same  nests.  I  have  seen  not  less  than  four  thousand  nests 
in  one  group,  as  close  together  as  they  could  be  placed. 

The  most  desirable  locality  seems  to  be  some  very  shallow 
and  very  muddy  lagoon,  where  the  nests  are  almost  unap- 
proachable. They  are  made  of  soft  mud  which  is  worked  up 
into  a  pyramid,  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  across  at  the  base, 
perhaps  fifteen  inches  high  the  first  season,  and  about  ten 
inches  across  on  top.  This  mud  dries  and  becomes  exceed- 
ingly hard,  so  as  to  retain  its  form  for  years.  The  birds  each 
year  add  a  little  to  the  top  of  the  nest,  so  that  the  nests  fre- 
quently become  two  feet  high  or  more. 

The  nest  is  hollowed  out  a  little  on  top,  and  the  eggs,  usually 
two,  are  deposited  on  the  bare  earth.  The  egg  is  large,  averag- 
ing about  three  and  a  half  by  four  and  a  half  inches,  and  when 
first  laid  is  pure  white,  being  covered  with  a  flaky  substance, 
but  it  becomes  bluish  when  this  is  removed.  The  bird  takes  a 
position  on  the  nest  like  that  of  most  other  birds,  but  sits  a 
little  farther  back  on  account  of  its  long  legs,  thus  bringing 
the  eggs  a  little  more  toward  the  breast.  It  does  not  sit 


LIFE  HISTORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  FLAMINGO.      55 

astride  of  the  nest,  as  it  has  so  often  been  represented,  but 
doubles  its  legs  under  its  body  like  other  long-legged  birds. 

I  know  of  no  authentic  data  as  to  the  age  the  flamingo  may 
reach,  but  I  judge  that  its  life  must  be  fully  fifty  years.  The 
bird  of  the  first  year  is  nearly  gray,  but  after  it  sheds  its  first 
winter  plumage,  it  assumes  a  reddish  color.  One  familiar  with 
flamingoes  can  easily  distinguish  their  ages,  at  least  to  the 
fourth  year,  and  it  is  evident  that  they  do  not  reach  their  full 
brightness  before  the  seventh  year. 

The  natives  used  to  be  in  the  habit  of  taking  large  numbers 
of  them  for  food  during  the  moulting  season,  when  the  birds 
cannot  fly,  the  feathers  being  so  few  and  the  body  so  heavy. 
The  plan  adopted  was  for  a  number  of  persons  to  go  out  with 
long  ropes,  surround  a  flock,  drive  them  together  in  a  huddle, 
then  stretch  a  line  of  rope  around  them,  and  at  a  given  signal 
rush  toward  the  flock.  The  birds,  in  their  efforts  to  escape, 
attempted  to  run  past  their  pursuers,  but  were  tripped  up  by 
the  rope.  When  thrown  down  into  the  water  it  took  them 
some  moments  to  regain  their  feet,  and  thus  their  captors 
gathered  them  in. 

Fifty  years  ago  they  used  to  be  taken  in  large  numbers  and 
carried  to  Key  West,  where  they  were  sold  for  food,  and  about 
the  same  time  they  were  not  uncommon  in  almost  every  suit- 
able locality  from  the  mouth  of  the  Rio  Grande  to  Cape  Florida. 
In  these  days  the  only  locality  in  the  United  States  where  they 
are  common-,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  is  the  extreme 
western  and  southern  coast  of  Florida. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  observations  I  made  was  dur- 
ing my  last  year's  work.  We  always  called  it  the  "dress 
parade."  We  were  watching  a  flock  of  three  hundred  or  more, 
standing  at  rest  some  four  hundred  yards  from  shore.  About 
an  hour  after  sunset  a  few  birds  commenced  to  feed,  and  soon 


56  WATER-BIRDS  IN  THEIR  HOMES. 

a  dozen  or  two  of  the  largest  males  began  to  march  backward 
and  forward  in  the  rear  of  the  flock.  Nearly  every  male 
soon  joined  in  this  concourse. 

The  line  of  the  flock  lay  about  parallel  with  the  shore,  and 
the  males  took  their  position  directly  in  the  rear  in  a  solid 
body.  As  though  at  a  given  signal  every  bird  commenced  to 
march,  passed  to  the  extreme  farther  end  of  the  flock,  and 
halted,  making  a  great  noise,  as  if  every  bird  in  his  loudest 
voice  said,  "Don't  I  wear  a  splendid  uniform?"  After  a 
moment's  pause,  all  faced  about,  marched  back  to  the  other 
end  of  the  line,  and  then  cried  again,  "  Am  I  not  a  beautiful 
bird  ?  "  When  marching  back  and  forth,  they  moved  in  almost 
as  perfect  order  as  a  platoon  of  soldiers.  Thus  the  parade  con- 
tinued for  nearly  an  hour,  until  one  by  one  the  birds  dropped 
out  of  the  ranks  and  began  to  feed  again. 


THE   SEA  BIRDS   OF   THE   PLAINS. 

PELICANS. 

"  The  wondrous,  beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  waves  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple  amorphas. 
Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk  and  the  roebuck ; 
Over  them  wandered  the  wolves  and  herds  of  riderless  horses  ; 
Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary  with  travel ; 
Over  them  wandered  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael's  children, 
Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above  their  terrible  war-trails 
Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vulture, 
Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered  in  battle, 
By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heavens." 

—  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW,  Evangeline. 

\ 
IF  you  were  to  ask  me  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  study 

sea  birds,  I  would  tell  you  to  go  to  our  Western  plains  and 
prairies.  It  is  strange,  but  true,  that  nowhere  else  can  one  find 
as  many  kinds  of  water-birds  as  in  the  interior  of  the  country. 
Kare  ducks,  found  on  the  Maine  coast  only  in  winter,  breed 
among  the  Rocky  Mountains;  the  little  phalaropes  that  we 
met  floating  off  Grand  Manan,  flock  more  abundantly  to  the 
prairies  ;  the  cormorant  of  the  North  builds  her  nest  among  the 
inland  lakes  beside  the  pelican  of  the  South;  and  swans, 
cranes,  plovers,  sandpipers,  terns,  and  sea-gulls  breed  in  vast 
numbers  about  all  the  little  ponds  of  water  that  dot  the 
prairie.  Birds  that  never  mingle  upon  the  coasts  dwell  there 
side  by  side. 

It  is  a  pretty  sight  to  see  their  white  plumage  shining  about 
the  blue  pools,  the  green  uneven  prairie  behind.     How  shall  I 

57 


58  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

make  you  see  it  —  the  Prairie  du  Coteau  du  Missouri, '  the 
hill  and  lake  country  of  northeastern  Dakota  and  of  the 
British  province  just  to  the  northward  ?  The  broad  prairie, . 
treeless  except  along  the  river  courses,  which  thus  outline 
themselves  as  in  a  map,  rolls  away  in  low,  melting  ridges  that 
shut  out  the  sky  more  than  would  seem  possible  to  you  who 
imagine  that  the  prairie  is  as  flat  as  tjie  ocean.  And  so  it  is 

—  but  sometimes  monotonously  level  like  an  ocean  calm,  and 
sometimes  breaking  in  ripples  and  swells  and  ridges  of  green 
grass  like  the  green  waves  of  the  sea,  capped  with  the  white 
foam  of  flowers. 

In  color  it  varies  according  to  the  latitude,  from  the  gray 
barrens  of  Assiniboia,  where,  the  last  of  June,  the  whole 
country  is  as  brown  as  a  mouse's  ear,  to  the  lively  green  of 
Dakota  that  at  the  same  season  ripples  in  grass  and  wheat. 
Not  that  our  expectations  of  wheat  to  the  saddlebow  and  grass 
above  a  horse's  head  are  met  there.  The  wheat  of  Dakota  is 
shorter  strawed  than  the  Eastern  grain ;  it  has  too  much  to  do 
in  filling  its  heavy  head  in  the  short  summer  season  to  grow 
the  long  stalks  that  we  find  in  wheat  and  grass  farther  south. 

The  abundant  wild  flowers  bloom  on  a  level  with  the  prairie 

—  little  striped  pink  and  white  roses  scarcely  six  inches  high, 
but  sweet  as  a  June  morning,  the  light  blue  prairie  crocus,  the 
purple  wild  indigo,  and  a  multitude  of  showy  blossoms,  among 
them    that  treacherous    cactus,    the    prickly    pear,    with    its 
yellow  flowers. 

An  eye  that  knows  the  signs  will  see  everywhere  on  the 
prairies  the  buffalo-wallows  and  buffalo-trails  trod  out  in  years 
past  by  millions  of  the  great  shaggy  bison,  of  whom  nothing  is 
now  left  but  these  worn  paths  that  led  them  to  water,  the 
saucer-shaped  wallows  where  they  rolled  in  the  mud,  and  their 
white  bones,  lying  where  they  fell  or  gathered  into  great  heaps 


THE  SEA  BIRDS  OF  THE  PLAINS.         59 

to  be  carried  to  market  for  use  in  sugar  refining.  In  a  few 
years  these  too  will  have  vanished. 

Everywhere  over  the  prairies  near  or  far,  in  all  the  little 
hollows,  are  pools  of  water.  Some  are  alkaline  and  unwhole- 
some to  drink ;  some  are  salt,  and  there  grow  about  them 
the  same  plants  that  you  pick  by  the  sea-shore;  some  are 
fresh,  with  little  streams  flowing  in  and  out.  About  the  first 
two  is  generally  a  whitish  rim  of  salt  or  soda  left  by  the  evap- 
oration of  the  water ;  the  fresh-water  pools  are  oftener  edged 
with  water  plants  and  rushes. 

Here  the  sea  birds  congregate.  Great  pelicans  spread  their 
broad  pinions  in  graceful,  flight  or  sit  in  rows  with  their  bills 
upon  their  breasts  meditating  over  a  good  meal.  The  gulls  fly 
swiftly  back  and  forth,  with  a  strong  rowing  motion;  terns 
clip  past  in  sharp  zigzags,  like  those  of  the  dragon-flies  they 
follow ;  ducks,  grebes,  and  loons  float  on  the  ponds  or  dive  for 
food ;  sandpipers  and  plovers  trip  about  the  borders  of  the 
pools  with  melancholy  pipings ;  little  rails  skulk  in  and  out  of 
the  water  weeds ;  and  great  white  and  brown  cranes  stalk 
about  over  the  plains  like  birds  on  stilts,  eating  rose-hips  or 
dancing  uncouth  dances  to  woo  their  mates. 

Here  the  birds  live  and  breed,  building  nests  upon  the  open 
prairies  of  such  materials  as  they  can  find.  A  photograph  of 
a  Foster's  tern's  nest  from  South  Dakota  shows  that  it  is  built 
principally  of  sticks,  some  of  'them  large  and  long,  a  much 
more  substantial  nest  than  the  scooped-out  hollow  in  the  sand 
or  the  trivial  fencing  of  twigs  that  I  have  found  among  the 
Eastern  terns. 

Their  food,  too,  varies  much  from  their  diet  in  the  East ;  less 
fish  because  fish  is  not  always  easy  to  find  even  in  fresh-water 
ponds,  and  more  insects  of  different  sorts.  In  Minnesota,  the 
beautiful  Franklin's "  gull  follows  the  plough,  and  picks  up 


60  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

grubs  as  a  crow  or  a  blackbird  might,  whence  the  pretty  name 
the  farmers  there  give  it  of  Prairie  Dove.  The  gulls  are  good 
grasshopper  catchers,  and  the  terns  eat  dragon-flies  in  large 
numbers. 

But  the  pelican  is  the  bird  most  unlike  any  we  know  in  the 
East.  His  great  bulky  figure  and  fully  webbed  feet,  his 
wrinkled,  swinging  pouch  and  long,  flat  bill,  though  familiar 
enough  to  city  children,  are  quite  unknown  to  those  who  do 
not  live  near  parks  or  menageries. 

Any  child  who  lives  near  Lincoln  Park  in  Chicago,  where 
the  water-birds  are  given  full  liberty,  and  neither  confined  nor 
maimed,  but  trusted  to  remain  where  they  are  well  treated, 
may  see  them  fishing  in  the  ponds,  or  sitting  quietly  about  the 
shores  preening  their  feathers. 

In  Central  Park,  New  York,  where  the  birds  are  not  so  well 
cared  for,  but  have  their  wing-tips  cut  off  at  the  joint,  and  their 
liberty  largely  taken  from  them,  the  chief  interest  is  to  watch 
them  fight.  A  gannet  and  crane  there  used  to  have  a  perpetual 
difference  of  opinion,  and  to  carry  on  a  most  amusing  duel. 
The  long-legged,  long-necked  crane  appeared  to  have  every 
advantage  of  his'  short-legged,  short-necked  antagonist,  which 
could  not  reach  up  to  the  crane's  body.  The  crane  would 
torment  the  gannet  until  the  latter  opened  his  mouth,  when  the 
crane  would  strike  with  the  evident  intention  of  spearing  the 
gannet  down  the  throat.  But  the  gannet  was  always  a  little 
too  quick,  and  in  the  end  he  revenged  himself  on  the  crane's 
legs.  He  used  also  to  punish  that  notorious  bully,  the  black 
swan,  till  only  interference  saved  the  swan's  life.  Yet  the 
keeper  said  that  the  slow,  unwieldy  European  pelican  was  the 
master  even  among  these  fighting  characters. 

In  this  country  we  have  two  pelicans  differing  much  in  color 
and  in  habits.  The  white  .pelican  is  more  abundant  in  the 


THE  SEA  BIRDS  OF  THE  PLAINS.        61 

X 

interior  than  on  the  coast,  while  the  brown  pelican  is  common 
along  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  less  abundant  inland.  All  along 
the  Florida  coast  the  brown  pelicans  may  be  seen  soaring  above 
the  blue  water,  or  fishing  in  flocks,  and  sunning  themselves 
on  the  sand  bars. 

In  the  West  the  great  white  pelican  takes  its  place.  Their 
habits  are  rather  similar,  except  in  a  single  particular.  The 
brown  pelican  plunges  from  the  wing  after  its  fish,  but  the 
white  pelican  hunts  its  prey  by  swimming.  Often  a  flock  will 
band  together  and  drive  a  school  of  fishes  into  shallows,  where 
they  gather  up  large  numbers  at  every  scoop  of  their  big  bag. 
The  water  taken  in  is  allowed  to  drain  out  of  the  corners  of 
their  mouths,  and  the  fish  are  swallowed. 

If  the  bird  is  fishing  to  feed  her  young,  she  still  does  the 
same,  and  afterward  disgorges  the  fish ;  for  she  could  not  fly 
if  her  pouch  were  filled  with  fishes,  as  many  books  teach  us, 
because  then  her  body  would  be  out  of  balance. 

Though  they  live  together  in  large  flocks,  the  pelican  so 
naturally  seeks  dreary  and  lonesome  places  that  it  has  been 
taken  as  an  emblem  of  desolation.  "  And  the  pelican  of  the 
wilderness  shall  possess  it,"  says  the  Scripture,  frequently 
choosing  the  pelican  and  the  bittern,  because  they  dwell  in 
remote  and  sedgy  marsh-lands,  to  typify  utter  ruin  and 
desolation. 

For  centuries  the  pelican  has  been  chosen  as  the  symbol  of 
one  thing  or  another.  An  odd  conceit  in  its  natural  history 
is  connected  with  the  days  of  chivalry.  When  knights  used 
to  ride  out  in  full  armor,  each  man  carried  a  shield,  and  on  it, 
partly  because  few  could  read,  and  partly  because  it  was  im- 
portant to  know  friend  or  foe  while  still  a  long  way  off,  each 
man  painted  some  device  which  stood  instead  of  his  name. 
Usually  it  was  a  bird  or  an  animal  in  a  certain  attitude,  —  a 


62  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

lion  rampant,  a  lion  couchant,  a  pelican  "in  her  piety,"  a 
peacock  "  in  his  pride." 

In  such  a  device  the  pelican  was  represented  above  a  nestful 
of  young  with  upturned  bills,  her  own  head  turned  down  upon 
her  breast.  She  was  the  symbol  of  fostering  care  and  self- 
sacrifice,  for,  so  the  fable  ran,  she  fed  her  young  with  the 
life-blood  drawn  from  her  own  breast.  It  is  a  pretty  tale, 
though  untrue,  and  may  have  arisen  from  a  curious  error  in 
observation. 

Those  mediaeval  heralds  were  poor  naturalists,  never  careful 
to  see  all  they  might,  and  perhaps  unable  to  approach  very 
near  to  so  shy  a  bird  as  the  pelican.  Thus  what  they  thought 
they  saw  was  all  one  to  them  with  what  they  actually  did  see. 
If  you  notice,  the  pelican  in  her  piety  is  usually  painted  with 
the  beak  and  the  talons  of  a  hawk  instead  of  with  webbed  feet. 
The  state  seal  of  Louisiana  which  bears  a  pelican  in  her  piety 
does  not  fall  into  this  old  error  —  perhaps  because  pelicans  live 
in  Louisiana  and  the  people  there  know  how  they  look. 

It  may  interest  any  child  living  near  one  of  our  large  parks 
to  see  how  the  heralds  made  their  mistake.  Watch  the  old 
pelicans  sunning  themselves,  standing  erect,  with  their  long, 
straight  bills  laid  low  on  their  white  breasts,  and  their  pale 
eyes  squinting  at  you  across  their  noses.  The  pelican  of 
Europe  has  a  pinkish  bill  with  a  bright  red  nail  at  the  tip. 
The  heralds,  having  seen  this  at  a  distance  as  it  lay  against  the 
white  plumage,  called  it  a  streak  of  blood;  whence  rose  the 
fable  of  the  pelican  "  in  her  piety."  Much  poor  natural  his- 
tory has  become  current  because  men  did  not  see  things  as 
they  are. 

A  far  more  interesting  and  curious  characteristic  of  our  Amer- 
ican white  pelican  may  be  observed  by  any  child  who  will  take 
the  pains  to  make  a  few  trips  to  the  park.  Go  first  in  early 


THE  SEA  BIRDS  OF  THE  PLAINS.  63 

spring.  If  you  are  looking  at  our  American  white  pelican  you 
will  see  a  bird  without  a  crest,  and  with  a  yellowish  bill,  very  flat 
on  top.  Go  again  in  May  or  June  and  observe  the  same  bird. 
He  has  a  mane  of  white  feathers  nearly  the  whole  length  of  his 
neck  ;  his  bill  and  the  bare  skin  about  his  eyes  are  blood-red, 
and  on  the  top  of  his  bill,  as  seen  in  the  picture,  rises  a  jagged 
"  centre-board,"  perhaps  two  inches  tall  and  three  inches  long. 


FIG.  10.     HEAD  OF  WHITE  PELICAN  IN  BREEDING  SEASON. 

Both  sexes  show  the  centre-board,  the  red  bill,  and  the  breed- 
ing plumes,  and  both  lose  them  soon  after  the  mating  season  is 
over.  The  crest  and  the  "  horn  "  fall  off,  the  bill  fades  to 
yellow  again,  and  by  July  or  August  the  pelican  is  once  more 
without  adornment,  except  the  little  grayish  crest,  quite  unlike 
his  white  mane  ;  this,  in.  turn,  is  shed  a  little  later  in  the 
year. 

It  is  hardly  more  than  twenty  years  since  this  interesting  fact 


64  WATER-BIRDS  IN   THEIR   HOMES. 

was  discovered,  and  we  cannot  get  a  better  idea  of  the  way  in 
which  sea-birds  formerly  thronged  the  prairie  than  by  quot- 
ing from  the  original  discoverer,  Mr.  Kobert  Bidgway.  In 
July,  1867,  Mr.  Bidgway  visited  Pyramid  Lake,  Nevada,  and 
saw  the  whole  beach  covered  "  with  a  dense  crowd  of  these 
gigantic  snow-white  creatures,  who  scarcely  heeded  us  as  we 
arose ;  as  we  approached  them,  however,  they  pushed  one 
another  awkwardly  into  the  water,  or  rose  heavily  and  con- 
fusedly from  the  ground,  and  flying  some  distance  out  upon 
the  lake,  alighted  upon  the  water." 

The  next  year,  in  May,  when  Mr.  Bidgway  returned,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  most  of  the  pelicans  had  a  "  conspicuous 
prominence  on  the  top  of  the  upper  mandible,  known  among 
the  white  people  of  the  neighborhood  as  the  'centre-board,' 
so  called  from  some  fancied  resemblance  to  the  centre-board  of 
a  sailboat.  At  this  season  both  sexes  were  highly  colored,  the 
naked  soft  skin  of  the  face  and  feet  being  fiery  orange-red,  or 
almost  blood-red,  instead  of  pale,  ashy  straw-yellow,  as  in  all, 
both  old  and  young,  in  August.  .  .  .  Soon  the  number  of 
birds  distinguished  by  the  '  centre-board ?  daily  decreased, 
while,  to  account  for  this  phenomenon,  a  corresponding  num- 
ber of  the  cast-off  ones  was  found  upon  the  ground.  Some  of 
these  loosened  ornaments  had  been  but  recently  dropped,  as 
was  plainly  shown  by  their  freshness,  while  others,  which  had 
been  cast  for  some  time,  were  dry  and  warped  by  the  sun. 
Toward  the  last  of  the  month  no  birds  possessing  this  excres- 
cence were  to  be  seen,  but  the  appendages  themselves  were 
scattered  so  numerously  over  the  ground  that  a  bushel  could 
have  been  gathered  in  a  short  time,  though  upon  our  first 
arrival  in  the  island  not  one  was  to  be  seen." 


PART   II. 

STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 


LITTLE  STUDIES  IN  DIFFERENTIATION. 

**  The  point  of  the  comparative  method  is  that  it  brings  before  us  a 
great  number  of  objects  so  nearly  alike  that  we  are  bound  to  assume  for 
them  an  origin  and  general  history  in  common,  while  at  the  same  time 
they  present  such  differences  in  detail  as  to  suggest  that  some  have 
advanced  further  than  others  in  the  direction  in  which  all  are  travelling  ; 
some,  again,  have  been  abruptly  arrested,  others  perhaps  even  turned 
aside  from  the  path.  In  the  attempt  to  classify  such  phenomena  the 
conception  of  development  is  presented  to  the  student  with  irresistible 
force." 

—  JOHN  FISKE,  A  Century'1  s  Progress  in  Science. 


COMPARING  BONES. 

WHEN  we  have  plucked  the  feathers  off  our  Thanksgiving 
turkey  and  have  eaten  the  meat,  there  are  the  bones  left.  We 
do  not  always  realize  that  under  our  own  skin  and  flesh  there 


FIG.  11.     SKELETONS  OF  MAN  AND  BIRD. 

(By  courtesy  of  McClure's  Magazine.     Copyrighted,  1897,  by  the  8.  S.  McClure  Co.) 

are  bones,  too.  This  picture  of  the  bones  of  a  bird  and  of  a  man, 
drawn  to  the  same  scale,  reminds  us  that  after  all  we  are  much 
like  the  bird.  If  you  will  save  the  leg-bones,  the  breast-bone, 
and  the  wing  and  shoulder  bones  of  a  cooked  fowl,  —  a  boiled 

67 


68  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

fowl  is  cleanest,  —  and  also  the  feet  which  have  been  cut  off 
in  dressing  the  fowl,  you  will  be  able  to  see  wherein  your 
bones  are  like  a  bird's. 

Let  us  take  the  leg  and  compare  it  with  our  own.  First,  we 
notice  that  there  are  the  same  number  of  joints,  but  not  the 
same  number  of  toes  nor  of  bones.  I  am  not  sure,  however, 
but  you  will  disagree  with  me  as  to  the  number  of  the  joints, 
and  we  are  likely  to  have  trouble  in  naming  them  unless  we 
begin  at  the  right  end  of  the  leg,  —  first  the  hip,  then  the  knee, 
then  the  heel.  But  where  is  the  bird's  knee  and  where  is  his 
heel? 

There  is  an  old  Greek  tale  that  the  rival  philosopher,  at- 
tempting to  make  fun  of  Plato  for  calling  man  a  featherless 
biped,  presented  a  cock  plucked  of  his  feathers  to  Plato's 
students  with  the  explanation  that  this  was  Plato's  man. 
Thoreau's  ready-witted  Canadian  woodchopper  thought  that 
the  philosopher  overlooked  the  fact  that  the  coc^s  knees  bent  the 
wrong  way.  Most  of  us  have  the  same  impression — that 
a  bird's  knees  bend  the  wrong  way.  But  let  us  begin  at  the 
hip  and  count  downward,  —  hip,  knee,  heel,  —  and  we  shall 
see  where  we  find  the  chicken's  knee.  Where  is  his  heel? 
Where  is  a  dog's  knee?  a  horse's?  a  cat's?  and  which  way 
do  they  bend  ?  (Only  remember  that  a  four-footed  creature's 
fore  legs  are  arms  and  their  joints  correspond  to  the  joints  of 
our  arm  numbered  from  the  shoulder.)  A  knee  always  hinges 
forward,  an  elbow  backward ;  a  wrist  always  hinges  forward, 
a  heel  backward.  Therefore  a  horse's  "  fore  knees  "  are  his 
wrists,  and  what  you  have  been  calling  the  chicken's  knee 
is  really  his  heel. 

Having  determined  the  principal  joints,  we  may  look  at  the 
larger  bones  of  the  leg.  There  is  the  thigh-bone,  which  lies 
between  the  hip  and  the  knee,  the  shin-bone,  or  "  drumstick  " 


COMPARING  BONES. 


69 


(called  in  birds  the  tibio-tarsus),  which  runs  from  knee  to 
ankle,  and  the  tarso-metatarsus  (usually  called  the  "tarsus"), 
which  is  the  part  of  the  leg  between  the  heel  and  the  toe  joints, 
the  part  we  see  in  life  and  call  the  "  leg  "  of  the  bird.  You 
will  not  find  anything  in  your  own  body  resembling  this, 
though  it  really  takes  the  place  of  the  bones  in  your  own  foot 
and  in«tep,  and  is  made  up  by  the  welding  together  of  several 
little  bones.  All  you  need  to  remember  is  that  the  name  is 
tarsus  and  the  plural  of  it  is  tarsi.  The  name  is  important 
because  it  means  just  that  part  of  the  leg  between  the  heel  and 


FIG.  12.     BONES  OF  WING  OF  BIRD  AND  ARM  OF  MAN. 

(By  courtesy  of  McClure's  Magazine.    Copyrighted,  1897,  by  the  S.  8.  McClure  Co.) 

the  toes,  the  exposed,  scaly  portion  that  we  commonly  see  in 
the  live  bird.  It  is  frequently  highly  colored,  so  that  books 
often  speak  of  "  tarsi  red,"  or  of  "  yellow  tarsi." 

We  will  not  delay  to  study  the  chicken's  foot,  —  except  to 
notice  that  it  has  only  four  toes,  —  but  will  take  up  the  wing, 
with  its  shoulder,  elbow,  and  wrist  joints  clearly  equivalent 
to  our  own,  an  upper  arm-bone  and  two  fore-arm  bones  very 
similar  though  differently  modelled  at  the  joints,  and  two  long 
hand-bones  unlike  our  five  in  being  solidly  fastened  together 
at  the*  end.  There  are  three  fingers  in  place  of  our  five, 
though  little  nestling  birds  show  traces  of  the  other  two  fingers 


70  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

which,  not  being  needed,  do  not  develop.  The  only  name  we 
need  to  learn  here  is  carpus,  the  scientific  name  for  the  wrist, 
whether  in  man,  birds,  or  mammals.  As  this  is  sometimes 
marked  by  a  band  of  bright  color,  books  on  birds  sometimes 
speak  of  the  carpus,  or  carpal  joints,  or  the  "  bend  of  the 
wing,"  as  being  brown  or  yellow. 

Next,  let  us  turn  to  the  breast-  and  shoulder-bones.  We  have 
a  breast-bone,  —  a  little  straight  slip  of  a  bone  that  we  cannot 
feel  distinctly,  —  but  it  has  no  ridge  down  the  centre  like  the 
great  keel  of  the  chicken's  breast-bone,  for  we  have  not  the 
heavy  muscles  that  need  such  a  bone  to  support  them.  Do  we 
have  a  wish-bone  ?  Yes,  or  something  that  corresponds.  Our 
two  collar-bones  do  the  same  work  as  the  chicken's  wish-bone, 
in  bracing  the  shoulder  out.  Perhaps  some  of  you  may  re- 
member what  happens  to  the  arm  when  the  collar-bone  is 
broken.  Did  you  ever  notice  the  differences  in  wish-bones? 
Collect  a  few  of  different  game  birds  and  see  how  they  brace 
the  shoulder  in  different  ways.  The  bird  has  shoulder  blades, 
much  longer  and  narrower  than  our  own ;  and,  in  addition,  he 
has  "  shoulder  blades  in  front,"  —  the  coracoids,  those  flat, 
wide,  straight  bones  that  are  braced  against  the  top  of  the 
keel  to  hold  the  shoulder  up  and  out.  Study  the  relation  of 
these  bones  as  they  lie  on  the  carcass  of  the  fowl,  and  you 
will  see  how  much  it  reminds  you  of  the  rowlock  of  a  racing 
scull,  heavily  braced  far  out  from  the  side  of  the  boat,  so  as  to 
give  a  greater  purchase  to  the  oar.  By  means  of  this  tripod 
of  bones  the  shoulder  is  held  far  enough  out  from  the  centre 
of  the  body  for  the  muscles  to  get  a  good  purchase. 

We  see  that  while  the  larger  bones  of  a  bird  are  about  the 
same  as  our  own  in  number,  they  are  different  in  shape  and 
proportions.  Now  we  are  ready  to  go  011  and  learn  how  they 
are  fitted  to  the  life  the  bird  leads  and  how  he  swims  and  flies. 


THE   FOOT   OF  A  SWIMMING  BIRD. 

How  do  birds  swim?  Why  do  some  swim  better  than 
others  ? 

We  must  not  think  that  in  order  to  swim  a  bird  must  be 
web-footedo  The  phalaropes,  with  only  a  little  border  of 
webbing  along  the  toes,  are  expert  swimmers ;  so  are  the 
gallinules,  with  round  toes  entirely  un webbed ;  the  sandpipers, 
with  their  long,  slender  toes,  can  swim  when  it  is  necessary, 
and  the  water  ouzel,  a  near  relative  of  the  cat-bird,  plunges  in 
boldly  and  dives  and  swims  fearlessly.  In  the  palm  house 
of  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago,  there  used  to  be  a  number  of  little 
rails  wandering  freely  among  the  tropical  plants  and  swimming 
in  their  little  pool,  a  proof  to  any  Chicago  child  who  watched 
them  that  webbed  feet  may  be  a  convenience  but  are  not  a 
necessity  to  a  swimming  bird. 

Yet  for  birds  that  live  much  in  the  water,  and  especially  for 
those  that  fly  poorly,  it  is  scarcely  more  important  to  be  able 
to  swim  at  all  than  to  be  able  to  swim  well.  Speed  is  essential. 
Therefore,  because  it  is  the  simplest  device  for  securing  swift- 
ness, the  webbed  foot  is  the  typical  swimming  foot.  We  find 
the  webs  of  all  shapes  and  extent  from  the  scalloped  lobes  of 
the  coot  and  the  narrow  web  of  some  terns  to  the  extra-ample 
webbing  of  the  gannets,  pelicans,  and  cormorants,  where  all 
four  toes  are  connected  by  the  membrane. 

If  we  wish  to  understand  how  a  bird  swims,  we  should  think 
of  a  boat.  Let  us  say  that  the  bird's  body  is  paddled  by  his  feet 
just  as  a  man  paddles  a  boat,  and  we  shall  understand  how  the 

71 


72  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

bird  reaches  his  foot  forward  and  pulls  until  he  has  drawn  his 
body  ahead  of  his  feet,  and  then  (continuing  the  stroke  but 
changing  the  kind  of  action)  pushes  against  the  water  until  his 
feet  trail  behind. 

If  we  think  of  the  water  as  less  easily  moved  than  the  bird's 
body,  we  can  easily  understand  the  paddling  motion.  In  order 
to  paddle  faster  a  man  must  take  either  more  strokes  or  longer 
strokes  in  a  minute,  or  else  use  a  longer  or  a  wider  paddle ;  that 
is,  he  must  displace  more  water  in  a  given  time.  The  bird,  in 
order  to  swim  fast,  must  do  the  same,  —  quicken  his  stroke, 
or  lengthen  it,  or  oppose  a  greater  surface  to  the  water.  The 
bird  that  can  do  all  three  without  exhausting  his  strength  is  an 
expert  swimmer. 


D 

FIG.  13.     LEG -BONES  OF  A  LOON. 
A  Thigh-bone.     B  Knee.     G  Tarsus.     D  Heel. 

If  you  will  compare  your  chicken's  leg-bones  with  this 
picture  of  the  leg-bones  of  a  loon,  you  will  observe  some 
marked  differences  in  the  relative  length  of  bones,  the  arrange- 
ment of  toes,  and  in  that  little  bony  spur  that  stands  up  in 
front  of  the  knee  joint,  which  the  chicken  does  not  have. 


THE  FOOT  OF  A    SWIMMING  BIRD,  73 

Though  the  loon  appears  to  be  a  short-legged  bird,  on  account 
of  its  very  short  thigh,  we  see  by  the  length  of  the  bones 
that  it  can  swim  with  a  very  long  stroke.  Its  large,  webbed 
foot  presses  back  a  great  amount  of  water.  And  the  little  bony 
splinter  at  the  front  of  the  knee  is  a  capital  device  (found  only 
in  the  grebes  and  the  loons)  for  quickening  the  stroke.  The 
tendons  fastened  to  the  point  of  this  extension  throw  the  foot 
forward  with  great  force  and  quickness,  as  any  boy  can"  see 
who  makes  a  tip-up  with  uneven  arms,  and  tries  to  raise  the 
long  arm  by  strings  tied  at  different  places  along  the  short  arm. 
The  farther  from  the  central  pivot  the  string  is  tied  the  less 
force  will  be  required  to  move  the  arm;  and  so,  the  farther 
beyond  the  knee  joint  the  pulling  tendon  is  attached,  the  less 
force  will  be  required  to  draw  the  loon's  leg  forward  into 
position  for  the  stroke.  The  short  thigh  is  also  an  advantage 
in  the  backward  stroke. 

But  the  man  paddling  has  one  great  advantage  over  the  bird. 
When  he  has  finished  his  stroke  he  carries  his  paddle  back 
through  the  air,  while  the  bird's  foot  must  return  through  the 
water  to  make  its  forward  stroke.  The  paddle  meets  little 
resistance  on  the  return,  but  the  foot  will  meet  nearly  as  much 
as  it  created  on  the  stroke,  unless  there  is  some  special  remedy. 
The  folding  of  the  foot,  which  diminishes  the  surface,  meets 
this  difficulty. 

In  all  web-footed  birds  the  toes  fold  close  together  on  the 
return  so  that  the  webs  do  not  catch  the  water ;  but  in  the  loon 
and  grebe  they  are  not  only  arranged  to  fold  one  behind  the 
other  but  are  flattened  besides,  so  that  they  make  the  least  pos- 
sible resistance.  And  in  both  the  loon  and  grebe  th'e  tarsus  is 
compressed  until  it  is  scarcely  thicker  than  a  knife-edge  at  the 
back,  and  cuts  the  water  before  it.  The  last  device  for  speed 
is  the  arrangement  of  the  legs  at  the  very  end  of  the  body, 


74  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

where  they  sweep  past  each  other  alternately  in  long  straight 
strokes,  giving  the  greatest  possible  force  and  efficiency. 

Everything  that  could  give  speed  in  the  water  has  been 
adopted  in  the  grebe  and  the  loon,  and  with  what  wonderful 
success!  In  all  kinds  of  aquatic  feats  they  lead  all  other 
birds.  Yet  at  what  a  cost  do  they  hold  this  supremacy  in  one 
particular !  When  we  see  the  grebe's  foot,  put  on  at  the  very 
hinder  end  of  the  body,  flattened  as  if  crushed  by  a  boot  heel, 
with  its  toes  set  in  the  same  straight  line  as  its  shank,  and  its 
flexed  heels  nipping  close  together  so  that  the  toes  turn  out- 
ward, we  see  at  once  that  this  bird  cannot  walk. 

A  perfect  swimmer,  fitted  with  all  appliances  for  speed  and 
endurance  in  swimming,  he  has  been  over-developed  in  one 
direction,  and  is  good  for  nothing  but  swimming.  He  is  put 
at  the  very  foot  of  the  list  as  the  lowest  organization  of  all, 
while  our  little  bluebird  and  robin,  that  seem  to  have  no 
special  accomplishments  but  are  good  "  all-round  "  birds,  stand 
at  the  very  top.  It  is  a  harm  to  a  bird  as  well  as  to  a  man 
to  be  so  much  developed  along  one  line  that  he  is  weak  in 
other  directions.  So  in  science  we  say  that  "  the  most  special- 
ized" forms  are  the  lower,  and  the  "most  generalized"  forms 
—  that  is,  the  "good  all-round"  forms  —  are  the  higher 
structures. 


THE   WING   OF   A   BIRD. 

Now  we  will  see  how  wings  are  fitted  for  flying. 

That  a  good  wing  must  be  large,  strong,  light,  and  safe 
against  accidents  hardly  needs  to  be  said ;  and  yet  not  until 
we  compare  a  bird's  wing  with  a  bat's  do  we  observe  that 
a  wing  may  have  all  these  points  and  yet  be  an  inferior 
wing.  The  great  skinny  hand  of  the  bat  is  badly  shaped 
for  speed  and  it  baffles  with  the  wind,  not  being  made  to 


FIG.  14.     WING-BONES  OF  BAT. 

shed  it  on  the  upward  stroke.  The  superiority  of  the  bird's 
wing  is  that  it  is  practically  made  of  slats  which  swing 
in  their  places  to  let  the  air  pass  through  on  the  up-stroke. 
A  very  simple  change  it  seems  to  be,  and  yet  to  make  it 
practical  there  have  been  a  hundred  and  one  alterations  from 
the  primitive  hand-wing  of  the  bats  and  of  the  ancient  flying 

75 


76 


STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 


lizards.     The  bat's  wing  was  the  simplest  possible  device ;  the 
bird's  wing  is  a  great  invention. 

The  bird's  wing  was  not  made  hit-or-miss,  but  by  the 
nicest  adjustments  and  by  the  correct  solution  of  many  prob- 
lems. First  of  all,  the  use  to  be  made  of  it,  which  decides 
its  shape.  Then,  its  size,  which  depends  largely,  but  not 
entirely,  upon  the  weight  of  the  bird's  body.  Then  there  are 
the  problems  of  making  the  wing  strong  enough  to  resist  the 
pressure  of  the  air;  of  making  it  as  light  as  possible;  of 
giving  to  the  individual  feather  lightness,  stiffness,  and  a  firm 
attachment  to  the  -bone ;  of  making  the  feather  impervious  to 
the  air  on  the  downward  stroke ;  of  making  it  shed  the  air  on 
the  upward  beat;  of  providing  muscles  strong  enough  to  spread 
these  great  fans  and  to  keep  them  moving ;  of  placing  these 


FIG.  15.     WING  OF  BIRD. 

(By  courtesy  of  McClure's  Magazine.    Copyrighted,  1895,  by  the  S.  S.  McClure  Co.) 

muscles  where  they  will  not  make  the  bird  top-heavy ;  of  pro- 
viding lungs  large  enough  to  keep  the  blood  fresh  and  warm, 
and  of  devising  some  way  of  breathing  that  will  not  interfere 
with  the  motions  of  flying.  The  invention  and  construction 
of  a  great  locomotive  are  simplicity  itself  to  the  skill  required 
to  make  it  possible  for  a  bird  to  fly  with  a  bird's  wings. 


THE   WING   OF  A  BIED.  77 

The  problems  come  under  two  heads,  —  how  the  ,wing  is 
made  and  how  it  is  managed,  —  which  we  will  take  up 
separately. 

Let  us  study  the  wing  as  it  looks  in  life,  and  see  what  we 
can  discover.  The  one  here  pictured  is  the  same  from  which 
the  bones  figured  on  page  69  were  drawn  and  lies  with  the  bones 
in  the  same  position  as  in  that  cut. 

We  notice  first  that  when  the  wing  is  spread  the  bones  are 
not  stretched  out  as  straight  as  those  in  our  arms  when  they 
are  fully  extended,  but  that  there  is  a  permanent  crook  at  the 
elbow  which  is  filled  in  with  skin  covered  with  feathers.  A 
plucked  chicken  shows  us  that  this  extension  is  a  fold  of  skin 
with  a  stout  tendon  running  along  the  double  of  it  like  the 
drawstring  of  a  bag.  When  the  wing  is  closed  this  tendon 
puckers  up  and  holds  the  wing  neatly  folded  by  the  bird's 
side.  When  the  wing  is  extended  this  skinny  flap  greatly 
increases  its  area,  and  the  tendon  makes  a  firm  selvedge  along 
the  margin.  Even  the  bat  has  such  a  membrane  along  the 
front  edge  of  the  wing,  and  undoubtedly  it  assists  both  bird 
and  bat  in  steering  their  flight  up  or  down,  while  it  probably 
aids,  as  a  jib  aids  the  mainsail  of  a  vessel,  in  equalizing  the 
pressure  of  the  wind  against  the  after  part  of  the  wing. 

In  examining  the  covering  of  feathers  we  see  that  they  are 
of  different  lengths,  differently  attached.  There  are  the  short 
ones  which  cover  the  skinny  portions  of  the  wing  in  over- 
lapping layers,  and  the  long  ones  which  are  attached  to  the 
back  edge  from  tip  to  body  in  a  single  line  of  strong,  wide, 
long  quills  whose  use  is  to  increase  the  area  of  the  wing  by 
adding  the  least  possible  weight.  These  quills  are  ai-ranged  in 
series  according  to  the  place  where  they  grow.  Those  that 
spring  from  the  tip  of  the  wing,  or  hand,  are  called  primaries; 
those  that  are  attached  to  the  forearm  are  the  secondaries)  and 


78 


STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 


those  that  lie  along  the  upper  arm-bone  are  the  tertiaries,  or 
scapulars,  as  they  are  sometimes  called,  that  is,  shoulder 
feathers.  The  primaries  are  always  either  nine  or  ten  in 
number,  and  never  vary  in  birds  of  the  same  family ;  they  are 
also  unevenly  webbed  and  often  have  the  broader  web  sheared 


HG          FEDCB  A 

FIG.  16.     DIAGRAM  OF  TECHNICAL  TERMS. 

A  Primaries.  B  Secondaries.  C  Primary  Coverts.  D  Greater  Coverts. 
E  Tertiaries.  F  Throat.  G  Chin.  H  Bill.  /  Front.  J  Crown. 
K  Lesser  Coverts.  L  Interscapular  region.  M  Leg  (tarsus).  N 
Abdomen.  0  Rump.  P  Upper  tail  coverts.  Q  Under  tail  coverts. 

away  toward  the  tip,  making  emarginate primaries.  The  second- 
aries vary  much  in  number,  are  evenly  webbed  or  nearly  so, 
are  never  emarginate,  and  differ  from  the  primaries  in  one 
other  important  respect,  —  they  are  movable. 

With  the  bird's  wing  in  our  hand  we  should  notice  one  other 


THE   WING  OF  A   BIRD.  79 

point,  —  its  extreme  lightness.  Here  are  strong  bones,  power- 
ful muscles,  stiff,  long  quills,  a  wing  of  large  extent  made  to 
bear  up  a  heavy  bird  and  to  propel  him  faster  than  a  railroad 
train  can  travel ;  yet  the  whole  machine  weighs  but  a  few  ounces 
even  in  a  bird  of  the  largest  size.  We  have  noticed  how  a 
membrane  stretched  out  in  front  and  a  band  of  feathers  thrown 
out  behind,  without  any  heavy  frame  to  support  them,  save 
weight;  but  the  same  economy  is  even  more  apparent  when 
we  observe  that  the  wing-bones  themselves  are  hollow. 

The  general  shape  of  the  wing  is  such  as  to  beat  down  the 
air  with  a  firm,  clean  stroke,  for  which  it  is  concave  below  to 
hold  the  air  on  the  downward,  convex  above  to  shed  it  on  the 
upward  beat.  We  must  not  conceive  of  the  air  as  having  no 
weight  and  no  resistance ;  on  the  contrary,  every  time  the  wing 
rises  it  has  to  lift  all  the  air  above  it,  and  special  provisions 
are  made,  not  only  in  the  shape  but  also  in  the  structure  of  the 
wing,  to  relieve  it  of  as  much  weight  as  possible.  The  second- 
aries are  movable,  and  lie  between  little  ridges  across  the  larger 
fore-arm  bone,  in  which  they  turn,  like  oars  in  rowlocks,  edge 
up  on  the  upward  stroke,  face  down  on  the  descending  beat. 

It  is  generally  believed  that  the  hollow  bones  of  a  bird  help 
it  to  rise  in  the  air,  and  that  all  a  bird's  bones  are  hollow. 
This  is  a  gross  error,  as  you  will  see  if  you  examine  the  leg- 
bones  of  a  chicken  or  a  duck.  Indeed,  I  do  not  now  remember 
any  bird  of  this  country  which  has  not  marrow  in  its  leg-bones. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  leg-bones  of  the  ostrich,  which  cannot 
fly  at  all,  contain  more  air-cells  than  those  of  our  strongest 
flyers.  While  nearly  all  a  bird's  bones  are  full  of  air-cells, 
none  but  the  wing-bones  are  hollow,  and  even  these  in  some 
of  our  strongest  fliers  are  solid.  The  swifts,  for  example, 
have  long,  slender,  solid  wing-bones.  The  swallows  have 
only  the  upper  arm-bone  hollow.  Hollow  bones,  therefore, 


80  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

are  not  necessary.  The  first  thing  absolutely  required  is 
strength  to  stand  all  strains  put  upon  the  wing ;  the  second  is 
surface  enough  to  fasten  the  muscles,  tendons,  and  strong 
flight  feathers  firmly.  We  can  imagine  the  wing-bones  as 
being  made  of  the  right  size  and  shape,  and  then  bored  out 
inside  until  the  weight  is  reduced  as  much  as  is  safe.  We  can 
see  thus  that  a  long  and  very  slender  wing-bone  like  the  swift's 
or  swallow's  might  not  perhaps  be  bored  out  at  all  without 
making  it  liable  to  break. 

Lightness  is  only  an  advantage,  not  a  necessity  in  the  wing. 
Safety  is  the  prime  essential.  To  secure  this  the  weight  is 
never  reduced  to  the  danger  point,  and  a  number  of  neat 
devices  are  arranged  to  guard  against  accidents.  If  you 
examine  the  wing  of  a  chicken  you  will  see  that  while  there 
is  considerable  freedom  of  movement  in  the  joints  as  they 
lie  by  the  side  in  the  closed  wing,  as  soon  as  the  wing  is 
extended  the  joints  lock  and  become  rigid,  so  that  the  wing 
cannot  be  twisted  back  by  any  sudden  flaw.  Only  at  the 
shoulder  is  there  any  flexibility,  and  this  is  guarded  by  the 
strong  muscles  that  draw  the  wing  up  and  down. 

Thus  we  see  how  perfectly  the  bird's  wing  is  planned  to 
secure  speed  and  safety  with  the  least  exertion.  It  is  not 
so  simple  as  at  first  appeared,  and  there  is  still  more  which 
we  shall  have  no  time  to  study. 


A  FEATHEK. 

IN  order  to  understand  how  the  bird's  wing  can  resist  the 
pressure  of  the  air,  we  must  examine  the  wing-quill  of  some 
large  bird.  Our  Christmas  or  Thanksgiving  turkey  may 
furnish  us  with  a  stout  wing-feather,  or  we  may  pick  some 
up  in  the  parks  in  summer  when  the  ducks  and  geese  are 
moulting,  or  we  may,  if  nothing  better  can  be  obtained,  pull 
a  feather  from  the  turkey-tail  duster,  remembering  always  that 
we  have  a  tail-feather,  not  .a  wing-feather.  But  having  pro- 
cured a  broad-webbed  feather,  study  it  carefully.  Kub  your 
finger  along  the  webs  to  test  its  elasticity.  Notice  the  effect 
of  pressing  it  in  different  directions  and  observe  how  it 
stretches  under  pressure  like  a  piece  of  jersey  cloth,  breaking 
apart  only  under  rough  usage  or  great  strain,  and  readily 
being  coaxed  back  into  place  again. 

What  makes  the  web  of  the  feather  so  elastic  ?  The  ques- 
tion is  not  easy  to  answer  clearly,  for  a  feather  is  complicated 
and  its  parts  are  minute.  With  the  unaided  eye  we  see  too 
little  and  with  the  microscope  we  see  too  much.  We  shall 
understand  best  by  taking  for  the  first  a  feather  whose  parts 
can  be  readily  made  out  without  a  microscope.  An  ostrich 
plume,  for  example,  is  made  up  of  a  multitude  of  little 
plumes,  called  barbs,  attached  to  a  quill,  or  shaft;  and  each 
of  these  barbs  is  itself  a  miniature  plume  with  its  own  shaft 
and  barbs,  to  which  is  given  the  name  of  barbules.  Few 
feathers  show  the  barbules  as  plainly  as  these  plumes  of  the 
ostrich,  but  the  ostrich's  barbules  are  not  connected,  so  the 
G  81 


82  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

plumes  would  be  wholly  useless  for  flight  even  if  the  wings 
were  large  enough  to  lift  the  bird. 

In  the  long  feathers  of  the  peacock's  tail-coverts  we  see  a 
feather  that  is  fringed  with  scattered  disconnected  barbs  near 
the  base,  but  is  tipped  with  interlocking  barbs.  We  notice  too 
that  the  barbs  are  set  upon  the  shaft  at  an  angle,  so  that  where 
they  come  close  together  they  overlap  like  clapboards  on  a 
house ;  and  the  barbules,  being  hooked  at  the  end,  catch  hold  of 
the  barb  next  in  front  of  them,  and  hold  to  it.  Thus  at  the  tip 
of  the  peacock's  feather  there  is  the  beginning  of  a  true  web. 
The  barbules,  we  notice,  are  all  upon  the  upper  side  of  the 
barb,  or  upon  the  upper  edge  of  the  barb-shaft,  if  we  observe 
more  closely ;  for  the  barb-shafts  have  been  greatly  flattened, 
and  they  lie  side  by  side  like  the  thin  leaves  we  see  beneath 
a  toadstool  on  turning  it  over.  This  is  an  arrangement  to 
give  stiffness  without  increasing  the  weight,  and  it  greatly 
strengthens  the  feather  to  bear  the  upward  pressure  of  the  air. 

In  the  hawk  and  eagle  this  arrangement  is  even  more  remark- 
able, though  we  cannot  see  it  so  easily.  And  in  these  strong- 
flying  birds  the  barbules  interlock  much  more  firmly,  so  that 
the  feather  is  impervious  to  air,  and  is  stiff  enough  to  resist 
the  pressure  of  the  wind. 

Without  a  microscope  we  cannot  see  the  little  barbicels,  split 
up  like  shavings  partly  cut  from  a  stick,  and  like  them  hooked 
at  the  ends,  which  reach  out  from  barbule  to  barbule  binding 
the  feather  together  still  more  closely.  Some  of  the  other 
arrangements  are  too  minute  to  be  seen  by  the  naked  eye  and 
not  easily  understood  from  description,  but  in  every  part  we 
find  the  feather  wonderfully  planned  to  resist  the  pressure  of 
the  air  without  the  slightest  unnecessary  weight. 

These  little  barbules  have  to  hold  tight  to  each  other;  for 
if  they  lost  their  grip  the  wind  would  blow  up  through  the 


A  FEATHER.  83 

),  and  much  of  the  effectiveness  of  the  feather  would  be 
lost.  If  a  bird  is  to  fly  well  it  must  have  firmly  webbed 
feathers,  and  all  flying  birds  have  them.  If  the  ostrich  had 
wings  as  large  as  thunderclouds,  he  could  not  fly  unless  his 
airy  plumes  were  replaced  by  good  quills  fit  to  beat  down 
the  air  under  them. 

We  observe  that  all  the  long  quills  overlap  each  other  like 
the  shingles  of  a  roof,  and  that  the  unevenly  webbed  primaries 
lie  with  their  narrow  edge  uppermost,  and  their  wide  web 
caught  under  the  quill  next  nearer  to  the  body.  This  greatly 
aids  in  making  the  wing  air-tight ;  for,  on  the  downward 
stroke,  the  wide  web  is  pressed  so  firmly  against  the  strong 
quill  and  stiff  outer  web  of  the  next  feather  that  the  air  cannot 
pass  through. 

But  on  the  up  stroke  there  is  nothing  to  hold  the  weak 
web,  which  is  borne  down  by  the  air,  and  thus  the  pressure 
on  the  wing  is  relieved.  While  this  would  happen  anyway, 
it  is  such  a  help  to  the  bird  in  flying  that  a  special  appa- 
ratus is  provided  along  the  back  of  the  forearm  for  turning 
the  secondaries  on  edge  to  let  the  air  pass  through  on  the 
upward  stroke.  By  these  arrangements  the  bird  is  able  to 
press  down  a  large  quantity  of  air  with  every  wing-beat,  but 
is  not  required  to  lift  an  almost  equally  large  amount  when 
the  wing  rises.  The  inability  to  do  this  is  what  makes  the 
bat  so  much  less  swift  and  capable  upon  the  wing,  although 
in  comparison  with  the  weight  of  his  body  his. wing  area  is 
very  much  greater  than  the  bird's. 


THE   BIRD   IN  THE   AIR. 

As  long  ago  as  King  Solomon,  who  was  the  first  naturalist, 
"  the  way  of  the  bird  in  the  air  "  was  one  of  the  stock  mysteries 
for  men  to  wonder  over.  How  does  a  bird  fly  ?  It  is  only 
recently  that  the  secret  has  been  discovered. 

In  order  to  fly  a  bird  must  have  wings  large  enough  to 
support  his  weight,  and  muscles  strong  enough  to  move  his 
wings;  there  seems  to  be  nothing  else  required  beyond  a 
proper  adjustment  of  power  and  supporting  surface.  We  do 
not  at  first  observe  any  such  wonderful  adaptations  in  wings 
as  we  saw  in  the  loon's  foot  to  fit  it  for  a  life  in  the  water  — 
merely  more  or  less  wing,  longer  or  shorter,  pointed  or  rounded. 
But  the  wonderful  thing  is  that  the  bird  can  fly  at  all. 

Here  we  have  the  problem  in  its  simplest  form :  how  is  an 
eagle,  weighing  ten  pounds,  to  raise  himself  in  the  air  by 
flapping  two  broad  fans  that  spread  from  tip  to  tip  some  seven 
feet  ?  Some  say  that  his  hollow  bones  and  the  air-sacs  in  his 
body  help  to  lift  him,  —  as  if  a  bird  were  a  balloon.  But  a 
balloon,  if  filled  with  air,  would  rise  no  more  than  a  grocery 
bag  blown  full  and  tied ;  a  balloon  is  always  filled  with  a  gas 
lighter  than  air.  An  eagle  can  never,  by  any  kind  of  puffing 
himself  up  with  air,  diminish  that  ten  pounds  in  weight, 
even  by  a  single  ounce.  The  balloon  theory  finds  two  other 
obstacles  —  a  balloon  must  sail  before  the  wind,  and  it  can 
travel  no  faster  than  the  breeze  that  bears  it,  while  the  bird's 
speed  is  voluntary,  and  he  usually  prefers  to  fly  against  the 
wind.  The  bird's  power  to  fill  himself  with  air  does  not 
account  for  his  flying. 

84 


THE  BIRD   IN  THE  AIR. 


85 


86  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

Others  say  that  the  bird  flies  like  a  kite,  and  this  is  partly 
right.  The  bird's  body  does  act  very  much  like  the  string  of 
the  kite,  serving  as  a  weight  to  hold  it  steady.  But  the  kite 
cannot  lift  the  boy  at  the  end  of  the  string;  if  it  could,  the 
kite  would  fall  just  as  we  see  it  do  when  the  string  breaks. 

That  laughable  story  for  boys,  "Phaeton  Rogers,"  tells  us 
how  Phaeton  made  his  great  kite  draw  his  wagon  down  the 
road,  and  how  the  kite  ran  away  with  him  while  the  whole 
town  raced  after  to  find  out  what  the  matter  was.  Now  we 
know  that  the  kite  would  not  fly  at  all  unless  it  could  keep 
a  taut  string;  and  the  faster  the  wagon  moved  the  nearer  it 
would  be  to  outrunning  the  kite,  so  that  it  is  hardly  probable 
that  Phaeton's  wagon  would  travel  as  fast  as  the  story  says. 
Did  you  never  underrun  your  kite  and  bring  it  down  even 


FIG.   18.     GULLS  FLYING  —  FROM  INSTANTANEOUS  PHOTOGRAPH. 

(AFTER  MAREY.) 
(The  dotted  line  shows  successive  positions  of  wrist  joint  in  flight.) 

when  there  was  a  good  breeze  ?  Now  in  most  instances  a 
bird  outruns  the  breeze,  and  he  has  no  stationary  weight; 
for  his  body,  the  weight,  travels  as  fast  as  the  wings.  So  we 
see  that  a  bird  does  not  resemble  the  kite. 

More  nearly  does  the  bird  resemble  the  swimmer,  who  supports 
himself  in  the  water  by  striking  out  with  his  arms,  pushing  him- 
self up  and  forward  by  the  resistance  of  the  water  to  his  stroke. 
The  bird  rises  and  moves  ahead  by  the  forward  and  downward 
sweep  of  his  wings,  falls  a  little  in  air  as  he  again  raises  them, 
and  once  more  moves  ahead  and  up  with  the  new  stroke. 


THE  BIRD  IN  THE  AIR.  87 

Like  the  swimmer  he  advances  by  a  series  of  undulations, 
a  long  incline  upward  (Fig.  19)  when  his  wings  press  the  air,  a 
little  drop  downward  as  he  raises  them  to  get  them  in  position 
once  more.  But  the  bird's  stroke  is  different  from  the  swim- 
mer's. As  soon  as  his  wings  are  at  their  highest  point,  they 
begin  to  turn  forward  and  downward  with  a  strong,  even 
sweep  that  lifts  the  body  and  carries  it  ahead. 

The  air  is  driven  backward  less  by  the  direction  in  which 
the  wing  is  moved  than  by  the  curvature  of  the  under  surface, 
by  its  general  shape,  and  by  the  rotary  motion  at  the  shoulder 
joint.  When  it  is  necessary  to  recover  for  the  next  stroke, 
see  by  the  picture  how  neatly  it  is  done.  The  wing  bends  at 
the  joint,  leaving  only  half  as  great  a  resisting  surface,  the 


FIG.  19.     GULLS  FLYING  —  50  IMAGES  PER  SECOND.     (AFTER  MAREY.) 

(The  line  shows  the  centre  of  gravity  in  successive  positions.) 

secondaries  roll  on  edge,  removing  still  more  pressure;  the 
body  drops  a  little  by  its  own  weight,  and  up  flies  the  wing 
into  place  so  quickly  that  the  camera  can  get  but  two  pictures, 
though  it  takes  four  of  the  descending  stroke.  Please  notice 
carefully  that  the  wing-beat  is  a  forward  motion ;  the  tip  of 
the  wing  never  drags  far  back ;  even  when  it  is  ready  to  be 
raised  it  is  still  on  a  line  with  the  eye.  The  bird  is  always 
reaching  ahead  to  cut  into  air  not  yet  disturbed  by  his  own 
movement. 

We  know  that  the  bird  rises  by  the  resistance  of  the  air, 
using  his  wings  as  levers  and  the  air  as  a  fulcrum.     But  how 


88  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

does  he  get  his  start  ?  How  does  he  guide  his  course  ?  How 
does  he  stop  ? 

Watch  different  birds  taking  flight.  The  old  crow  on  the 
fence-rail,  if  there  is.no  breeze,  throws  himself  forward  and 
drops  a  little,  which  gives  him  his  first  wing  stroke  with 
all  the  momentum  of  his  falling  body.  When  there  is  a 
wind  he  turns  to  face  it,  even  if  he  intends  to  fly  in  the  other 
direction,  stretches  up  on  his  legs  to  his  full  height,  and  lifts 
his  wings.  The  wind  fills  them.  He  leans  down  upon  it,  and 
his  first  stroke  gives  him  headway  and  bears  him  up. 

Many  birds  give  a  little  leap  in  air  as  a  help  in  rising  from 
the  ground.  From  a  tree  it  is  easy  for  any  bird  to  get  upon 
the  wing,  but  starting  from  a  level  surface  the  difficulties  are 
greater  and  they  increase  with  the  weight  of  the  bird,  whether 
he  be  a  good  flyer  or  not.  The  turkey-buzzard,  a  majestic 
bird  on  the  wing,  makes  a  slow,  ungraceful  start.  The  eagle, 
even  when  in  danger  of  his  life,  has  been  reported  to  stop 
to  run  in  awkward  leaps  several  rods  because  he  could  not  at 
once  gain  mom'entum  enough  for  his  wings  to  get  their 
leverage.  The  loon  is  habitually  in  a  worse  plight,  for  he 
can  get  no  chance  to  spring  from  the  water,  and  must  get  his 
momentum  by  running  along  the  surface,  flapping  his  wings. 
Even  then  his  wings  are  too  Small  to  lift  his  heavy  body  unless 
there  is  a  breeze  blowing. 

What  is  momentum  ?  —  an  impulse  to  go  ahead.  A  body 
at  rest  has  only  a  tendency  to  stay  still,  its  inertia,  until  some- 
thing sets  it  moving.  The  bird  starting  to  fly  must  overcome 
its  inertia.  If  it  can  once  get  the  going-ahead  motion,  all  it 
needs  to  do  is  to  hold  its  body  in  the  right  position  and  lift 
itself  with  its  wings. 

Holding  the  body  in  this  or  that  position  alters  the  direction 
of  the  bird's  flight.  If  he  wishes  to  rise  he  throws  the  body 


THE  BIRD  IN  THE  AIR.  89 

into  a  more  or  less  vertical  position,  according  to  the  angle  at 
which  he  wants  to  ascend;  if  he  wishes  to  glide  down,  he  just 
lets  himself  fall  forward.  The  straighter  the  body  is  held  the 
straighter  up  the  bird  goes.  The  straighter  it  is  held  the  more 
directly  he  descends. 

If  you  should  ever  see  a  game  bird  "  tower  "  you  will  notice 
how  erect  the  body  is.  I  know  no  flight  among  our  American 
birds  so  nearly  vertical  as  the  towering  of  the  ruffed  grouse, 
but  it  is  an  exhibition  not  often  seen  unless  one  is  with  a  gun- 
ner, as  the  birds  seldom  or  never  tower  unless  wounded  in  the 
head. 

We  have  already  described  the  forward  movement  of  the 
bird  in  studying  the  stroke.  Let  us  notice  again  the  peculiar 
folding  of  the  upraised  wing  and  the  rolling  secondaries  which 
spill  the  air  and  make  the  work  of  lifting  the  wing  both  quick 
and  easy. 

Speed  in  flight  is  attained  in  two  ways  —  by  the  shape  of  the 
wings,  and  by  the  quickness  with  which  they  are  moved.  A 
small-winged  bird  may  fly  very  fast  by  moving  its  wings  with 
great  rapidity,  and  a  large-winged  bird  may  be  a  slow  flyer  if 
it  move  its  wings  very  slowly.  But  if  two  birds  move  their 
wings  the  same  number  of  times  a  minute,*that  one  will  fly 
the  faster  which  has  the  longer  wings,  because  it  has  the 
greater  leverage  on  the  air.  We  shall  notice  too  that  all  swift- 
flying  birds  haxe  very  strong' primaries,  and  the  stronger  flyers 
have  also  very  long  primaries.  Long  wings,  long  primaries, 
strong  primaries,  make  the  work  easier  for  the  bird. 

Very  swift  birds  one  may  expect  to  find  with  narrow  wings. 
The  reason  is  that  the  wings  are  levers  and  their  length  and 
strength  give  them  their  efficiency  without  regard  to  their 
width.  So  the  swifts  and  swallows  and  terns  have  very  long, 
narrow  wings.  Birds  with  wings  both  wide  and  long  must 


90  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

either  be  rather  slow  flyers  or  else  in  the  habit  of  soaring,  for 
which  they  need  a  large  area  of  wing.  But  a  very  long-winged 
bird,  even  though  its  wings  are  narrow,  may  be  able  to  soar  if, 
like  the  albatross  and  man-of-war  bird,  its  wings  are  long  enough 
to  furnish  the  required  area  in  sopite  of  their  narrowness. 

In  steering  the  tail  does  most  of  the  work,  though  a  part  of 
the  work  is,  and  the  whole  may  be,  done  by  the  wings.  Birds 
making  quick  evolutions  are  commonly  long-tailed.  The  terns, 
goshawk,  Cooper's  and  sharp-shinned  hawks  are  good  examples 
of  this.  On  the  other  hand,  the  chimney-swift  is  rather  short- 
tailed.  Birds  with  short  tails  and  long  legs  usually  trail  the 
legs  behind  in  flight,  so  that  a  boy  of  my  acquaintance^described 
a  heron  as  "  a  big  bird  with  only  one  tail  feather,  which  was  a 
yard  long.'7  The  loon  also,  though  his  legs  are  not  long, 
stretches  them  out  behind  him  with  the  webs  of  the  feet  held 
close  together  to  steer  him.  Finally,  a  bird  that  loses  his  tail 
has  to  learn  how  to  steer  himself.  A  cat-bird  that  I  once  knew, 
having  lost  his  tail  by  accident,  was  hard  put  to  tell  where  he 
was  going  until  he  learned  to  steer  a  more  certain  course  with 
his  wings. 

In  hovering,  also,  the  tail  plays  an  important  part.  Watch 
the  humming-bird  before  the  flower,  the  king-bird  over  the 
grass,  the  sparrow-hawk  above  the  hole  of  the  meadow-mouse. 
You  will  see  that  the  tail  is  held  full  spread  and  nearly  at 
right  angles  to  the  body,  unless  the  body  itself  is  dropped,  as 
it  often  is  in  the  humming-birds.  Thus  the  tail  holds  a  large 
part  of  the  air  fanned  back  by  the  wings,  and  acts  as  a  drag 
on  the  bird  to  hold  him  stationary  or  nearly  so. 

One  of  the  prettiest  sights  I  ever  saw  was  a  common  tern 
that,  attracted  by  my  fishing,  came  and  hovered  within  ten  feet 
of  me,  keenly  curious,  his  scarlet  bill  and  feet,  black  cap, 
silvery  mantle,  and  white  body  gay  as  a  picture  against  the 


THE  BIRD  IN   THE  AIR.  91 

blue  water  of  the  bay.  For  nearly  a  minute  he  held  himself 
as  stationary  as  if  suspended  on  a  wire,  hovering  with  head 
bent  down,  wings  partly  flexed,  and  his  long  forked  tail  dipped 
almost  at  right  angles  to  the  body  and  spread  so  wide  that  it 
looked  nearly  square  across  the  end  —  a  position  in  which  the 
forces  that  naturally  would  have  borne  him  ahead  were  bal- 
anced by  others  that  held  him  back. 

Stopping  is  accomplished  by  both  wings  and  tail.  A  bird  in 
swift  flight,  wishing  to  check  his  course  immediately,  spreads 
his  tail  to  the  fullest  extent,  throws  up  his  wings,  and  drops 
as  nearly  vertically  as  his  momentum  will  permit  him.  Watch 
pigeons  and  you  will  observe  that  they  are  experts  in  this 
method  of  alighting.  But  commonly  a  bird  merely  draws  in 
his  wings,  spreads  his  tail  more  or  less  to  check  his  motion, 
and  comes  gliding  down  on  an  easy  slant. 

Aside  from  these  necessary  motions  the  bird  has  a  number 
of  tricks  no  more  a  part  of  flying  than  riding  on  one  wheel  is  a 
part  of  bicycling,  but  very  pretty  sport.  We  sometimes  see  a 
bird  glide  until  his  momentum  is  gone,  when,  with  a  stroke  or 
two,  he  sends  himself  forward  and  rests  on  his  wings  till  the 
new  impulse  is  exhausted. 

Sometimes  birds  play  with  the  wind,  mounting  by  merely 
turning  to  face  it,  and  then  sliding  down  the  breeze  a  short 
distance,  when  they  turn  once  more  to  the  wind  and*let  it  raise 
them.  Again  one  bird,  the  tumbler  pigeon,  is  noted  for  its 
habit  of  falling  backward  in  mid-air,  a  habit  thought  by  some 
to  have  its  root  in  the  method  by  which  wild  pigeons  some- 
times escape  the  onslaught  of  a  hawk. 

But  the  most  beautiful  flight  trick  of  all  is  the  common  one 
of  soaring.  No  one  knows  all  about  it,  and  yet  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  under  most  conditions  the  bird  is  playing  with  a  breeze, 
letting  himself  be  borne  up  as  he  faces  it,  gliding  downward  a 


92         i  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

little  as  he  wheels  about  the  circle,  which  will  once  more  bring 
him  breast  to  the  wind.  Hawks  are  among  our  best  soaring 
land-birds;  but  some  sea-birds  excel  all  others  in  the  sport, 
wheeling  about  hour  after  hour  on  motionless  pinions,  keeping 
their  course  and  their  elevation  entirely  by  some  slight  adjust- 
ment of  the  body  or  by  an  inclination  of  the  tail.  Sailors 
declare  that  an  albatross  will  follow  a  ship  for  days  together, 
circling  above  her  without  rest.  It  is  certain  that  on  moon- 
light nights  the  man-of-war  bird  may  be  ,seen  for  hours  to- 
gether floating  far  above  the  sea.  Nor  is  a  soaring  bird  easily 
disturbed.  I  have  seen  a  soaring  goshawk,  when  a  bullet 
clipped  a  secondary  from  one  of  its  wings,  answer  with  its 
wild  scream  of  defiance,  and  without  haste  or  change  of  motion 
fill  out  an  unbroken  curve  of  its  ascending  spiral. 


COMPARING  FEET. 

NOT  until  we  see  many  birds  together  do  we  realize  how 
very  unlike  they  are.  No  bird  looks  out  of  place  in  its  own 
home  unless  we  catch  it  doing  something  quite  out  of  the 
ordinary.  When  a  wounded  heron  tries  to  swim,  or  a  breeding 
sandpiper  alights  in  a  tree,  it  looks  strange  and  uncouth.  But 
what  could  be  more  in  keeping  than  a  sandpiper  trotting 
along  a  pond-side,  or  a  still  heron  standing  in  a  pool? 
Structure  and  habits  are  so  interwoven  that  from  either  one 
something  may  be  inferred  of  the  other. 

Does  a  bird  spend  his  life  oh  the  wing  chasing  fish  or 
insects  ?  Then  look  to  find  him  furnished  with  very  long 
wings  and  very  short  legs.  Short  legs,  as  in  the  humming- 
birds, the  night-hawks,  the  swifts,  the  terns,  and  others  may 
be  taken  as  almost  certainly  indicating  that  the  bird  has  long 
wings ;  for  if  he  does  not  get  his  food  afoot  he  must  get  it  on 
the  wing,  or  else  spend  all  his  time  in  the  water.  Almost 
the  only  exception  to  this  is  the  woodpecker  family,  where 
short  legs  indicate  nothing  as  to  the  shape  of  the  wings,  their 
convenience  in  climbing  being  enough  to  explain  why  they 
are  short. 

On  the  other  hand,  long  legs  are  a  sign  that  they  have  some 
peculiar  use,  probably  to  help  the  birds  to  get  their  food. 
Though  long-legged  birds  often  have  very  good  wings,  we  find 
that  they  use  their  wings  chiefly  for  safety,  and  depend  upon 
their  legs  in  picking  up  a  living.  -It  is  always  safe  to  infer 
that  a  long-legged  bird  finds  most  of  its  food  in  shallow  water, 

93 


94  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

and  that  a  web-footed  bird  seeks  its  living  in  water  too  deep 
for  wading. 

When  we  compare  all  the  different  birds,  we  see  that  there 
are  no  great  jumps  from  one  extreme  to  another,  —  from  very 
short  legs  to  those  ridiculously  long,  from  tiny  bills  'to  those 
enormously  long  or  thick  or  wide.  Somewhere  in  nature  we 
may  expect  to  find  a  bird  which  just  fills  in  the  gap  and 
makes  a  graded  series. 

From  the  man-of-war  bird  with  his  abbreviated  legs,  for 
which,  short  as  they  are,  he  seems  to  have  almost  no  use  at 
all,  to  the  stilt  perched  up  on  his  absurd,  artificial-looking 
shanks,  extends  all  the  long  procession  of  birds  —  the  terns 
and  gulls  and  the  whole  race  of  sandpipers  and  others  that 
take  their  food  less  and  less  by  pursuing  it 
on  the  wing,  and  more  and  more  by  running 
or  wading  after  it.  The  changes,  after  all, 
are  gradual. 

Watch  the  growth  of  the  idea  of  a  swim- 
ming foot  and  see  how  the  need  of  more 

or  less  surface  to  oppose  the  water  is  met 
FIG.  20.      SEMIPAL-    ^  different  wayg       The  firgt  hint  we       t  of 

MATE       FOOT       OF  .       .          , 

SANDPIPER  (LIFE    a  wgb-foot  is  in  the  slight  semipalmation  of 
SIZE).  '    some   of    the    sandpipers.      We    need   not 

suppose  necessarily  that  this  is  a  sign  that 

the   sandpiper   swims    much,    for   we   find 

semipalmation  in  some  land-birds,  even  in 

the  hen,  and  we  know  that  this  is  to  bear 

them  up  in  walking  over  snow.     Perhaps  in 

the  sandpipers  the  principal  use  of  this  slight 

webbing  is  to  help  them  in  walking  over  soft   FlG'    2L      LoBATE 

FOOT  OF  PHALA- 
mud.     But  soon  it  becomes  evident  that  it        R0pr    (SLIGHTLY 

.aids  in  swimming,  and  the  little  phalaropes,        REDUCED). 


COMPARING  FEET. 


95 


close  cousins  of  the  sandpipers,  have  the  webbing  extended 
along  both  sides  of  their  toes,  in  a  scalloped  edge. 

Again  we  find  another  variation  for  increasing  the  surface 
in  the  excised  web,  in  which  the  space  between  the  toes  is  still 


FIG.  22.    EXCISED  WEB  FOOT  OF 
BLACK  TERN  (LIFE  SIZE). 


FIG.  23.    PALMATE  OR  WEBBED  Fooi 
orDucK  (REDUCED). 


more  filled  up,  though  the  word  signifies  that  the  foot  looks  as 
if  it  had  once  been  full-webbed  and  then  cut  out,  or  excised. 
In  the  ducks  and  geese  we  see  the  webbing  carried  out  to  the 
toe-nails,  and  the  surface  increased  by  spreading  the  toes  wide 
apart.  In  the  loons  it  is  still  further  increased  by  lengthening 
the  toes,  which  make  the 
webs  long  as  well  as  wide. 
But  one  other  device  seems 
possible,  and  that  we  find  in 
the  totipalmate  birds,  where 


FIG.    24.      TOTIPALMATE    FOOT   OF 
GANNET  (GREATLY  REDUCED). 


all  four  toes  are  joined  by 

the  web.      Observe,   please, 

that  in  these  the  outer  toe  is 

longest  while  in  all  other  web- footed  birds  the  third,  or  middle, 

toe  exceeds  the  others. 

Most  palmate  birds  swim  with  alternate  strokes,  now  right, 
now  left,  or  with  one  foot  a  little  behind  the  other,  seldom 
with  both  exactly  together.  The  swans  often  swim  with  only 


96  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

one  foot,  sticking  the  other  up  behind.  To  keep  a  straight 
course  a  swan  swimming  with  one  foot  must  "  bear  off  "  with 
every  stroke,  just  as  a  canoeman  does  when  using  a  single- 
bladed  paddle ;  otherwise  he  would  swim  in  a  circle. 

Some  of  the  totipalmate  birds  are  said  to  swim  with  both 
feet  together.  We  can  see  that  such  a  stroke  would  be  a  very 
strong,  effective  one.  The  feet  would  be  held  together  like 
an  inverted  triangle ;  and  the  longest,  strongest  toes,  the  outer 
ones,  would  form  the  lower  edge  of  a  V  where  the  greatest 
resistance  would  be  met.  With  feet  so  placed  a  powerful 
backward  and  downward  stroke  would  bring  every  part  of  the 
webbing  into  full  use,  and  give  a  great  impulse  to  the  bird. 


FIG.  25.     ZYGODACTYL  (OR  YOKE-TOED)  FOOT  OF  WOODPECKER 
(LIFE  SIZE). 

After  we  get  into  the  higher  orders  the  feet  differ  less 
noticeably;  yet  many  oddities  occur.  Notice  the  yoke-toed 
foot  of  the  woodpeckers,  the  cuckoos,  and  the  parrots,  or  the 
still  odder  foot  of  the  kingfisher,  in  which  two  of  the  toes  are 
grown  together  for  a  part  of  their  length. 

What  is  the  origin  or  use  of  such  a  foot  never  seems  to  have 


COMPABING  FEET.  97 

been  guessed.  We  can  see,  however,  that  the  kingfishers  use 
their  feet  only  in  clasping  small  perches,  and  that  parts 
so  little  exercised  would  naturally  be  small  and  weak  as  we 
find  these.  Instead  of  learning  the  hard  names  for  these 
forms  of  feet,  it  may  be  better  to  tell  you  that  dactyl  comes 
from  an  old  Greek  word  for  a 
finger  or  toe,  and  that  any 
word  of  which  it  forms  a  part 
always  tells  you  something  of  Fia-  26-  SYNDACTYLOUS  FOOT  OF 
fingers  or  toes.  Syndactylous  KINGFISHER  (LIFE  SIZE). 

means  "with  toes  joined  together";  zygodactylous  means 
"  yoke-toed  "  ;  now  what  does  pterodactyl  mean  ?  Look  it  up, 
and  you  will  have  mastered  another  word  from  the  Greek,  which 
is  often  used  in  science,  as  in  apteryx  and  in  other  compounds. 
We  must  not  forget  to  notice  the  differences  in  birds'  claws. 
Here,  too,  are  all  sorts  of  variations,  hinting  something  of  the 
bird's  ways  of  living.  Do  not  a  hen's  short,  stubby  nails  look 
like  those  of  a  hand  that  has  scratched  in  the  ground  ?  The 
crooked  claws  of  the  hawk,  and  owl,  sharp  and  shining, 
indicate  a  very  different  mode  of  living.  Birds  of  prey 
keep  their  claws  in  scrupulously  neat  condition,  never  pressing 
them  against  any  hard  perch 
but  lifting  them  as  a  cat  lifts 
her  claws,  or  turning  them  to 
one  side  that  they  may  not  be 
blunted.  Whenever  we  see  a 
bird  with  extremely  long  nails 
on  the  hind  toes,  like  the  long-  FIG.  27.  FOOT  OF  LONGSPUR  (LIFE 
spurs,  the  skylarks,  the  horned  SlZE)' 

larks,  and  the  meadow  lark,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  bird 
frequents  the  ground.  Probably  he  will  be  found  to  be  strictly 
terrestrial. 


98  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

While  most  birds  have  claws  that  are  flattened  or  hollowed 
beneath,  the  claws  of  birds  of  prey  are  generally  rounded. 
Yet  hawks'  claws  have  a  slight  groove  beneath,  owls'  claws 
have  a  flange  on  one  side,  and  the  foot  of  the  fish-hawk,  or 
osprey,  has  a  rounded  or  terete  claw  without  either  groove  or 
flange.  Why  these  differences  ?  Perhaps  no  one  can  explain 
them  any  more  than  why  the  long-legged  heron  and  the  short- 
legged  night-hawk  —  birds  of  utterly  dissimilar  habit  and  form 
—  should  each  have  a  comb-like  ridge  along  the  inner  edge  of 
the  middle  toe-nail.  The  fact  that  differences  exist  in  birds 
of  similar  habits  and  that  likenesses  are  found  in  birds  of  dis- 
similar habits  shows  how  hard  it  is  to  make  a  theory  that  will 
cover  all  cases. 


COMPARING   BILLS. 

To  walk  through  a  museum,  looking  at  the  different  kinds 
of  bills  that  the  birds  have,  and  wondering  how  they  are  used, 
is  almost  as  much  fun  as  choosing  the  pretty  things  in  a  store 
window.  Until  one  tries  it,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  there 
can  be  so  many  shapes,  —  noses  that  tip  up  and  tip  down, 
Roman-nosed  and  straight-nosed  birds,  and  a  hundred  noses 
that  we  have  no  name  for.  For  bills  are  noses  —  and  mouths 
too.  The  bird's  nostrils  always  open  somewhere  along  the 
upper  portion  of  the  bill,  so  that  the  whole  upper  mandible 
forms  an  exaggerated  nose.  Indeed,  one  of  our  commonest 
names  for  describing  a  certain  kind  of  nose,  the  word  aquiline, 
indicates  the  resemblance  of  a  bold,  humped  nose  to  the 
hooked  beak  of  aquila,  the  eagle. 


FIG.  28.     HEAD  OF  SWIFT. 

Among  our  North  American  birds  the  smallest  bills  of  all 
are  those  of  insect-hunters  like  the  swifts,  swallows,  and 
night-hawks,  which  have  merely  a  tiny  triangle  of  bill  pierced 
by  the  two  nostrils.  But  what  a  mouth  they  have  !  Open  it 

99 


100 


STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 


and  the  whole  head  seems  to  have  disappeared  down  its  own 
throat.  Though  the  bill  itself  is  so  small,  the  fissure,  or  gape, 
of  the  mouth  extends  nearly  the  whole  length  of  the  jaws,  so 
that  the  mouth  begins  to  open  as  far  back  as  the  eye. 

The  night-hawks  and  whip-poor-wills,  which  fly  with  their 
mouths  open,  have  the  sides  of  the  gape  fenced  in  with  rows 
of  bristles  which  prevent  insects  trapped  in  the  wide  mouth 
from  escaping  at  the  sides. 

The  swallows  and  swifts,  which  fly  with  closed  mouths  and 
catch  each  insect  separately  with  a  snap,  have  few  bristles, 
or,  in  most  cases,  none.  These  birds  that  hawk  after  insects 
have  very  small  tongues.  The  swifts  have  a  pouch  just  be- 
neath the  tongue,  in  which  they  keep  the  flies  that  they  carry 
home  to  their  little  ones. 


FIG.  29.     HEAD  OF  LONG-BILLED  CURLEW. 

Of  the  long-billed  birds  in  this  country  none  compares  with 
the  long-billed  curlew,  which  uses  his  sensitive  slender  probe 
in  searching  out  food  that  lies  deeply  buried  in  the  mud. 
Near  relatives  of  his,  as  the  snipe  and  the  woodcock,  have 


COMPARING  BILLS. 

bills,  equally  sensitive  and  nearly  as  long  in  proportion  to 
their  own  size,  and  capable  of  being  opened  at  the  tip  with- 
out opening  the  whole  length  of  the  gape.  I  have  noticed 
the  same  peculiarity  in  woodpeckers'  bills,  and  these,  like 
the  snipe,  seek  their  food  by  digging  it  out  of  deep  holes. 
Sometimes  when  walking  through  alder  ground,  or  in  muddy 
places,  we  may  see  the  "borings"  made  by  woodcock  and 
snipe  where  they  have  fed  at  night.  At  first  we  might  mistake 
them  for  wormholes,  but  there  are  no  "casts"  about,  and 
they  are  too  numerous  and  too  near  together  to  be  made  by 
worms,  and  if  you  look  intently  perhaps  you  may  see  the 
prints  of  a  bird's  foot. 

The  white  pelican's  is  the  longest  bill  without  reference  to 
the  bird's  size.  Watch  him  some  day  in  the  park  and  see 
the  flat  upper  mandible  pointing  straight  down  his  breast  as 
he  sits  thinking,  or  lifted  with  its  pendulous  pouch  beneath 
as  he  looks  up  in  anger  or  expectation.  Surely  this  bird  with 
a  bag  is  grotesque  enough. 

A  bill  hooked  at  the  tip  is  almost  a  sure  sign  that  the  bird 
lives  on  animal  food,  and  the  sharpness  of  the  tip  and  decision 
of  the  curve  are  guides  to  the  strength  and  liveliness  or  to  the 
toughness  of  the  flesh  of  the  prey  it-  contends  with.  So  we 
find  a  slight  hook  at  the  tip  of  the  bill  of  the  insect-eating 
flycatchers,  a  stronger  point  to  the  fish-eating  frigate  pelican's, 
and  an  abrupt  hook  in  the  bills  of  the  hawks,  owls,  and 
eagles. 

Some  fish-eating  and  insect-eating  birds,  as  the  terns,  herons, 
and  humming-birds,  have  straight  bills;  but  a  hooked  beak, 
which  is  the  characteristic  mark  of  the  raptor es  or  birds  of 
prey,  often  indicates  a  more  or  less  raptorial  character. 

Sometimes  a  hooked  beak  may  have  another  use,  as  in  parrots 
and  cross-bills.  But  you  will  notice  that  the  hawk's  bill  is 


102 


AND  COMPARISON. 


made  for  tearing  food,  the  parrot's  for  crushing  it,  and  the 
cross-bill's  for  reaching  into  out-of-the-way  crevices,  and  that 
the  hawk's  beak  is  really  far  less  like  a  parrot's,  for  example, 
than  it  is  like  a  shrike's,  whose  habits  are  more  like  the 
hawk's. 


1. 


FIG.   30.     BILLS  OF   0)  FRIGATE   BIRD,   (2>  HAWK,   (3>  SHRIKE,  («>VIREO, 
AND  (5>  BLUEBIRD. 

Of  the  compressed  bills,  —  that  is,  those  that  are  very  deep 
but  thin,  —  the  puffin's  is  a  prominent  example;  but  even  odder 
is  the  bill  of  the  ani,  or  tick-eater,  a  bird  sometimes  seen  in 
Florida,  which  is  thinner  for  its  height  than  the  puffin's,  and 
more  rounded  at  the  tip.  The  bird  is  a  relative  of  the  cuckoos, 
and,  as  its  name  shows,  gets  part  of  its  food  by  eating  the 


COMPARING  BILLS.  103 

ticks  and  other  vermin  that  cling  to  the  legs  and  hides  of  cattle 
in  hot  countries. 

The  opposite  of  this  form,  the  depressed  or  flattened  bill,  is 
well  shown  in  the  duck  tribe,  some  of  which  have  very  broad, 
flat  bills.  The  broadest  of  these  are  ridged  along  the  inside 
with  little  laminae,  or  plates,  that  act  like  a  strainer,  holding 
the  selected  morsels  tight,  while  the  mud  and  water  are 
drained  away.  This  is  a  convenience  to  birds  that  pick  up 
most  of  their  food  under  water  and  must  take  it  without 
cleansing.  The  flamingo's  bill  is  furnished  with  a  similar 
strainer.  In  spite  of  its  size,  the  flamingo's  bill  is  extremely 
light,  being  made  up  of  a  spongy,  bony  tissue,  full  of  air-cells. 
Few  large  bills  are  as  heavy  as  they  look  to  be,  since,  unless 
great  strength  is  needed,  the  interior  of  the  bill  is  made  up  of 
this  cellular  or  aerated  bone,  as  it  is  called. 

If  you  were  to  draw  all  the  kinds  of  bills  you  could  imagine, 
I  could  agree  to  match  most  of  them  from  birds  now  living 
in  some  part  of  the  world.  Do  you  make  one  that  turns 
down  at  the  tip?  You  have  already  seen  the  long-billed 
curlew's;  and  the  bills  of  some  of  the  foreign  humming- 
birds and  sun-birds  are  curved  in  a  quarter-circle  at  the 
tip.  But  if  you  make  one  that  curves  up,  we  can  match  that, 
too,  in  the  avocet,  a  bird  of  our  shores  and  prairies,  with  his 
tilted  bill,  and  as  great  an  oddity  as  any.  With  such  a  bill 
one  would  suppose  that  any  bird  must  be  handicapped  in 
getting  a  living,  yet  the  avocet  seems  to  fare  well. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  sight,"  writes  one  who  knows  them,  "  to 
see  a  flock  of  these  birds  feeding.  Wading  along  in  the  shal- 
lows, the  bills  are  moved  regularly  from  side  to  side,  through 
the  water  or  mud,  with  the  motion  a  man  makes  when  mowing, 
each  bird  keeping  to  the  side  and  a  little  behind  the  leader,  and 
if  the  water  is  deep  the  head  and  neck  are  frequently  immersed. 


104  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

They  advance  into  the  water  up  to  their  bellies,  and  if  it  should 
suddenly  deepen  they  keep  right  on  by  swimming,  not  at  all 
incommoded  by  the  loss  of  their  foothold." 

Here  is  a  shape  you  would  hardly  have  dared  invent,  a  bird 
with  the  under  mandible  much  longer  than  the  upper  and  as 
thin  as  a  knife-edge.  There  are  but  three  such  bills  in  the 
world,  and  all  belong  to  different  species  of  skimmers. 


FIG.  31.     HEAD  OF  BLACK  SKIMMER. 

"This  bird,"  says  Wilson,  "is  formed  for  skimming,  while 
on  the  wing,  the  surface  of  the  sea  for  its  food,  which  consists 
of  small  fish,  shrimps,  young  fry,  etc.,  whose  usual  haunts  are 
near  the  shore  and  towards  the  surface.  That  the  lower  man- 
dible, when  dipped  into  and  cleaving  the  water,  might  not  retard 
the  bird's  way,  it  is  thinned  and  sharpened  like  the  blade  of  a 
knife ;  the  upper  mandible,  being  at  such  times  elevated  above 
the  water,  is  curtailed  in  its  length,  as  being  less  necessary, 
but  tapering  gradually  to  a  point,  that,  on  shutting,  it  may 
offer  less  opposition.  To  prevent  inconvenience  from  the 
rushing  of  the  water,  the  mouth  is  confined  to  the  mere  open- 
ing of  the  gullet,  which  indeed  prevents  mastication  taking 
place  there;  but  the  stomach,  or  gizzard,  to  which  this  business 
is  solely  allotted,  is  of  uncommon  hardness,  strength,  and 


COMPARING  SILLS.  105 

muscularity ;  far  surpassing,  in  these  respects',; any  other  water- 
bird  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  To  all  these  is  added  a  vast 
expansion  of  wing  to  enable  the  bird  to  sail  with  sufficient 
celerity  while  dipping  in  the  water." 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  young  skimmers  have  the 
mandibles  very  nearly  equal  in  length. 


FIG.  33.     HEAD  OF  ROSEATE  SPOONBILL. 

Of  spoonbilled  birds  we  have  in  this  country  the  well-known 
roseate  spoonbill,  or  pink  curlew,  of  the  South,  with  his  bald 
head,  and  this  rare  little  sandpiper  (Fig.  32),  that  a  few  times 
has  straggled  over  to  our  coasts  from  its  Asiatic  home.  See 
what  a  dainty  poise  it  has  upon  the  slippery  ledge,  confident 
and  alert,  not  at  all  awkward,  —  a  true  shore-bird,  although  its 
blunt-ended  bill  is  so  unlike  the  delicate  little  probe  of  its 
sandpiper  cousins.  It  looks  like  an  accident  to  find  a  bill 
otherwise  unknown  except  among  the  family  of  spoonbills,  in  a 
group  of  birds  that  are  noted  for  the  length  and  true  taper  of 
their  bills ;  yet  undoubtedly  the  reason  for  this  form  would  be 


106  STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

fully  explained  if  we  knew  what  food  the  bird  preferred  when 
at  home. 

We  have  had  bills  that  turned  up  and   down,  but  no  one 
would  admit  that  a  bill  that  turned 
sideways  could  be  possible  except 
by  accident.     Yet*  here  is  that  "  ac- 
cident."     Every  egg   laid   by   this 
little  plover  produces  a  bird  with 
FIG.  34.    BILL    OF   CROOK-     the  bill    crooked  to  the   right.     It 
BILLED  PLOVER.  is  a  New  Zealand  bird,  but  unlike 

the   spoon-billed  sandpiper,  it   has 
never  strayed  to  our  shores. 

What  is  a  bird  with  such  a  bill  to  do  ?  How  can  any  bird 
be  better  fitted  for  his  work  by  having  a  bill  bent  to  one  side 
so  that  he  cannot  feed  unless  his  food  is  on  the  right  side  of 
him?  But  this  bird  gets  his  food  by  trotting  along  rocky 
river-beds  and  picking  up  small  forms  of  animal  life  that  creep 
in  under  the  loose  stones  of  the  dry  channels  for  greater  security 
and  moisture.  Therefore,  since  his  course  lies  never  in  a 
straight  line  and  usually  in  a  circular  direction,  it  is  no  disad- 
vantage to  him  to  travel  always  in  one  direction,  or  perhaps 
it  is  a  decided  advantage  not  to  have  to  turn  in  his  tracks  so  as 
to  face  the  stone  at  every  stop  he  makes. 

A  very  curious  point  about  this  bird's  coloration  is  worthy 
of  notice.  His  constant  habit  of  turning  to  the  right  leaves 
the  left  side  open  to  danger ;  all  his  foes  must  approach  him 
on  that  side.  He  has  across  his  breast  for  ornament  a  black 
band;  and  it  has  been  noticed  that  while  this  is  three-fourths 
of  an  inch  wide  on  the  right  side,  it  is  not  more  than  half  an 
inch  Vide  and  is  much  lighter  in  shade  on  the  exposed  left 
side,  thus  varying  both  in  width  and  color.  Think  of  it,  —  all 
the  other  birds  in  the  world  are  bisymmetrical  j  that  is,  alike 


COMPARING  BILLS.  107 

on  both  sides,  so  that  a  picture  of  one  side  of  them  is  precisely 
like  a  picture  of  the  other ;  but  this,  the  only  bird  in  the  world 
that  is  colored  unsymmetrically,  is  also  the  only  bird  that 
moves  always  in  the  same  direction  while  feeding,  thus  keeping 
the  same  side  exposed  to  its  enemies.  This  is  a  wonderful 
instance  of  what  is  called  protective  coloration,  about  which  we 
shall  soon  study. 


EYES    AND   CAMERAS. 

WHEN  you  have  longed  to  own  a  camera,  did  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  you  already  had  two,  and  that  you  could  not  avoid 
taking  pictures  all  day  long  unless  you  closed  your  eyes  ? 

The  eye,  like  the  camera,  is  a  box,  blackened  on  the  inside 
and  divided  into  two  unequal  chambers  by  a  partition  with  a 
lens  in  it  that,  like  a  little  round  window,  is  directly  in  line 
with  a  hole  in  the  front.  These  are  the  essentials  of  a  good 
camera,  though  the  little  "  pin-hole  "  cameras  that  boys  some- 
times use  are  even  simpler. 


FIG.  35.     DIAGRAM  OF  HUMAN  EYE. 
C  Cornea.     L  Lens.     /  Iris.     ON  Optic  nerve.     CP  Ciliary  processes. 

But  some  one  who  has  owned  a  camera  and  who  knows  all 
about  them  says  that  though  our  eyes  may  be  black  inside,  and 

108 


EYES  AND   CAMERAS.  109 

may  have  lenses  and  even  holes  in  them  (though  he  has  yet  to 
see  the  hole),  they  cannot  be  good  cameras  unless  they  have  a 
shutter  to  keep  out  light  when  not  in  use,  a  diaphragm  before 
the  lens  to  exclude  the  light  when  it  is  too  strong,  a  movable 
lens  so  that  they  may  be  focussed,  and  a  sensitive  plate  or 
film  for  the  picture  to  fall  upon.  "And  eyes,"  says  the  man 
who  owns  the  camera,  "have  no  shutters,  nor  diaphragms,  nor 
focus-screws,  nor  sensitive  films." 

But  our  eyelids  are  shutters  ;  whenever  we  open  our  eyes 
we  "  make  an  exposure,"  and  we  take  pictures  till  we  close 
the  lids  over  them.  The  eye  is  the  first  and  best  of  cameras, 
more  wonderful  than  any  other.  That  colored  ring,  the  iris, 
which  sometimes  is  narrow'and  sometimes  wide,  is  the  device 
which  lets  in  more  or  less  light  as  it  is  required.  It  adjusts 
itself  without  thought  on  our  part.  The  black  spot  *in  the 
centre,  the  pupil,  is  the  hole  we  spoke  of.  It  is  covered  by  a 
transparent  plate,  the  cornea,  which  keeps  out  the  dust,  but 
through  which  we  can  look  just  as  we  do  through  a  window. 
The  blackness  of  the  pupil  is  merely  a  portion  of  the  black 
lining  of  the  inner  surface  of  the  eyeball  which  we  see  through 
the  opening  in  the  iris.  Watch  the  eye  of  your  cat,  your  dog, 
or  any  other  creature,  and  observe  the  way  in  which  the  iris 
expands  and  contracts,  and  notice  the  varying  shape  of  the 
pupil.  How  does  the  pupil -of  a  horse's  or  a  cow's  eye  differ 
from  a  cat's,  and  how  do  both  differ  from  a  dog's  ? 

But  if  an  eye  is  a  camera,  how  is  it  focussed  ?  Not  by 
turning  a  screw  to  regulate  the  distance  of  the  lens  from  the 
object  pictured,  but  by  changing  the  shape  of  the  lens  itself. 
We  need  not  think  about  this  change  at  all,  for  it  acts  of  itself, 
or  automatically,  as  we  say.  It  will  be  long  before  any  camera 
is  advertised  with  an  automatic  focus.  As  to  sensitive  films, 
our  eyes  are  furnished  with  the  best  to  be  had,  one  that  does 


iio 


STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 


not  need  to  be  renewed,  and  on  which,  any  number  of  pictures 
may  be  taken,  one  after  the  other,  and  carried  to  the  brain  to  be 
developed.  And  the  retina,  as  it  is  called,  takes  not  only  form 
and  light  and  shade,  but  color. 

We  have  not  tried  to  explain  how  we  see,  because  that  would 
need  much  study.  It  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  our  eyes 
have  all  the  parts  of  a  perfect  camera,  and  that  they  take 
pictures  in  just  the  same  way.  And  not  only  our  eyes,  but 
those  of  all  beasts,  birds,  fishes,  and  reptiles  are  formed  on 
the  same  plan.  The  eye  of  the  vertebrate  animal  is  a  little 
camera. 

i  We  must  not  conclude  that  all  eyes  are  alike,  only  that 
they  all  are  made  on  the  same  plan.  They  vary  in  shape  and 
size  and  in  some  points  of  construction,  just  as  cameras  do, 
but  the  essential  parts  are  the  same.  These  diagrams  of  the 


FIG.  36.     THE  EYE  OF  THE  HAWK  AND  OP  THE  OWL. 
CP  Ciliary  processes.     ON  Optic  nerve.     P  Pecten. 

eyes  of   a  hawk  and  an  owl  show  the  differences  in  shape. 
In  structure  they  are  almost  precisely  like 'our  own  eyes  except 


EYES  AND   CAMERAS.  Ill 

that  they  have  inside  them  a  little  folded  membrane  called  the 
pecten,  which  our  eyes  lack.  Its  use  is  not  known,  but  it  has 
been  suggested  that  it  helps  to  focus  the  eye  instantaneously, 
so  that  the  hawk,  swooping  from  a  height,  or  the  gannet,  diving 
from  the  air  like  an  arrow,  may  always  keep  a  clear  and  un- 
bliirred  vision  of  its  prey.  Our  own  eyes  could  not  be  adjusted 
for  such  rapid  motion.  It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  elon- 
gated eyeball  and  round  lens  of  the  nocturnal  owl  with  the 
flattened  eyeball  and  lens  of  the  diurnal  hawk.  Contrary  to 
popular  opinion,  the  owl  can  see  very  well  by  day  also,  because 
his  eye  is  capable  of  great  adjustment  to  the  amount  of  light, 
and  can  either  collect  the  scattered,  feeble  rays  of  dusk  and 
darkness,  or  exclude  the  strong  glare  of  day. 

Eyes  are  not  only  the  most  perfect  cameras,  but  they  are  also 
the  smallest.  Small  as  our  own  eyes  are,  there  are  others  far 
tinier.  Think  of  the  birds  about  us,  the  swallow  chasing  the 
fly,  the  vireo  tripping  along  a  bough,  the  chickadee  clinging  to 
a  twig,  searching  for  food  too  small  for  us  to  discover.  Probably 
the  smallest  cameras  known  are  the  eyes  of  the  humming-birds. 
The  tiny  Princess  Helena  humming-bird  of  Cuba  is  only  two 
and  a  quarter  inches  from  bill-tip  to  tail-end,  and  its  eye  is 
about  the  size  of  the  head  of  a  round-headed  black  pin.  Can 
there  be  a  smaller  camera  than  this  ?  But  the  little  humming- 
birds, when  they  first  open  their  eyes,  are  not  nearly  as  large 
as  their  mother,  and  yet  their  eyes  are  as  perfect  as  hers. 
Surely  these  are  the  smallest  cameras  in  all  the  world. 


THE  IKIS   OF  BIKDS. 

IF  we  look  at  the  birds  about  us,  we  shall  soon  notice  that 
not  all  of  them  have  the  same  colored  eyes.  Can  you  tell 
the  color  of  a  dove's  iris?  of  a  crow-blackbird's?  of  a  gray 
parrot's?  You  will  find  more  difference  among  them  than 
among  boys  and  girls  with  their  brown,  blue,  and  gray  eyes. 
When  we  begin  to  observe  these  differences,  we  ask  certain 
questions  as :  How  many  colors  do  birds'  eyes  have  ?  Is  the 
color  always  the  same  in  the  same  kind  of  bird?  Is  it  the 
same  all  through  the  bird's  life  ? 

There  are  birds  with  white,  blue,  green,  red,  purple,  orange, 
yellow,  and  brown  eyes.  Black  eyes  are  among  the  rarest,  for 
most  of  our  black-eyed  birds,  like  our  black-eyed  boys  and 
girls,  have  a  dark  brown  iris.  If  you  ever  held  an  English 
sparrow  in  your  hand,  you  may  have  noticed  what  a  clear 
brown  the  iris  is.  The  old  pelican  waddling  about  the  park 
has  a  white  iris ;  the  puffins  are  blue-eyed ;  cormorants  are 
green-eyed;  most  wild  pigeons  have  eyes  of  some,  shade  of 
pink  or  purple  ;  while  owls  and  herons  are  usually  yellow-eyed, 
and  hawks  are  either  yellow,  red,  or  brown  eyed.  Nearly  all 
our  small  birds  have  dark  brown  eyes.  We  must  remember 
that  it  is  only  the  iris  which  is  colored;  the  pupil  of  every 
healthy  eye  is  black.  Notice  the  eyes  of  different  animals. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  white-eyed  horse ?  or  a  blue-eyed  cat?  or  a 
yellow-eyed  dog  ?  What  are  the  commonest  colors  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  horses,  dogs,  and  cats  ? 

Naturalists  think  that  wild  birds  and  animals  of  the  same 

112 


THE  IRIS   OF  BIRDS.  113 

kind  and  the  same  age  always  have  the  same  colored  eyes. 
Often  this  makes  an  easy  way  to  tell  one  species  from  another. 
The  red-eyed  vireo  and 
the  white  -  eyed  vireo 
could  easily  be  distin- 
guished by  the  color  of 
the  eye  alone.  So,  too, 
the  common  towhee  of 
the  North  with  his  red  eye  is  readily  distin- 
guished from  the  white-eyed  towhee  of  the 
South,  which  otherwise  is  almost  precisely 
similar.  But  here  we  find  a  curious  fact. 
The  white-eyed  towhee  is  not  a  distinct  spe- 
cies, but  is  a  race  of  the  red-eyed,  and  we  find 
that  part  way  between  the  northern  and  the 
southern  limits  of  the  two  forms,  —  in  Geor- 
gia, for  example,  —  the  towhees  are  neither  FIG.  37.  —  HEAD  OF 
white-eyed  nor  red-eyed,  but  have  brownish  GOOSANDER  (MALE). 
eyes. 

A  curious  in- 
stance of  seasonal 
change  has  been 
observed  in  the 
Louisiana  egret. 

In  the  spring,  during  nesting  time, 
both  the  male  and  female  have  a  red 
eye,  surrounded  by  bare  blue  skin. 
In  the  female  the  iris  gradually 
changes  to  yellow  after  the  breeding 
season  is  over,  while  the  blue  skin 

becomes  yellow  also.     The  male  keeps 

FIG.  38.  — HEAD  OF  Goos- 

his  red  eye.  ANDER  (FEMALE). 

i 


STRUCTURE  AND   COMPARISON. 

A  notable  difference  in  colors  in  the  two  sexes  is  that  of  the 
sheldrake,  or  goosander,  which  we  have  already  studied.  The 
male's  eye  is  red,  the  female's  yellow.  The  red-breasted  mer- 
ganser, however,  has  a  red  eye  in  both  sexes,  and  the  hooded 
merganser  has  a  yellow  eye  in  both  sexes.  What  is  odd  is  that 
though  the  males  of  the  first  two  species  are  remarkably 
different,  the  females  are  so  nearly  alike  that  they  can  hardly 
be  told  apart  except  by  the  color  of  their  eyes  and  by  their 
nesting  habits. 

There  is  sometimes  a  change  of  color  with  age  in  birds  as  in 
cats.  A  young  crow,- or  raven,  is  as  blue-eyed  as  a  kitten,  but  as 
he  grows  older  his  eye  becomes  as  black  as  his  reputation.  I 
have  seen  a  young  goshawk,  taken  from  the  nest,  which  was 
blue-eyed,  though  at  a  later  period  the  goshawk's  eyes  are 
yellow,  and  at  maturity  they  are  red.  From  blue  to  yellow, 
yellow  to  red,  what  a  change  for  one  bird ! 

We  have  seen  that  the  color  may  vary  with  age,  sex,  and 
season,  or  may  even  form  a  racial  mark,  as  in  the  towhee,  yet 
that  it  is  usually  constant  in  the  same  individual  and  species 
through  life. 

There  is  another  interesting  thing  about  birds'  eyes.  Any 
one  who  has  watched  an  owl  will  remember  the  third  eyelid, 
or  "  winking  membrane,'-  which  the  owl  draws  sleepily  over 
his  eyes.  You  may  observe  something  similar,  though  not 
nearly  so  complete,  in  your  cat  when  she  is  lying  on  the  rug 
half  asleep.  Even  in  your  own  eye  there  is  a  trace  of  this 
winking  membrane  in  the  little  folds  of  membrane  in  the 
inner  corner  of  the  eye;  but  you  have  no  power  to  draw  it 
over  the  eye  as  the  cat  and  the  owl  do. 


WHITE   BLACKBIRDS   AND   OTHER   FREAKS. 

IT  is  the  hope  of  seeing  something  new  and  strange  that  keeps 
the  naturalist  always  enthusiastic :  there  is  always  a  chance  of 
seeing  white  blackbirds,  and  he  lives  in  expectation  of  the  rare 
chance  falling  to  him. 

White  blackbirds  are  not  of  uncommon  occurrence.  I  have 
seen  the  cowbird,  the  rusty  grackle,  the  Brewer's  blackbird, 
and  the  red- winged  blackbird  —  besides  crows  and  meadow- 
larks,  which  are  relatives  of  the  blackbird's  —  either  partially 
or  entirely  white.  Of  course  these  were  mounted  birds,  for  so 
much  good  luck  would  not  fall  to  any  one  person  in  the  field. 
It  is  an  accident  of  nature,  but  by  no  means  a  rare  one,  that 
every  now  and  then  a  bird  will  be  hatched  without  the  usual 
amount  of  coloring  matter  in,  its  feathers,  in  which  case  it  will 
be  either  wholly  or  partly  white.  These  accidents  are  called 
albinos,  or  partial  albinos,  as  the  case  may  be.  When  the  bird 
is  an  entire  albino,  it  usually  has  pink  eyes.  Similar  accidents 
occur  among  animals  with  the  same  accompaniment  of  pink 
eyes  if  the  albinism  is  entire.  The  white  of  such  birds  is  seldom 
pure  white,  oftener  a  yellowish,  or  grayish,  or  dirty  white,  and 
oftener  only  partial,  being  confined  to  a  few  wing  or  tail  feathers, 
or  a  patch  of  grayish  white  about  the  head  and  neck.  Among 
English  sparrows  it  is  not  unusual  to  see  a  bird  thus  marked 
Take  note  of  such  birds  to  see  whether  you  ever  meet  them 
again ;  they  are  curious,  but  have  no  other  interest. 

It  is  very  odd  that  albinism  appears  to  run  in  some  genera 
of  birds  more  than  it  does  in  others.  White  crows  are  not  un- 

115 


116  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

common,  nor  are  white  blackbirds,  as  has  been  said.  I  have 
seen  a  white  ineadow-lark  also  almost  pure  white  with  only  a 
faint  yellow  tinge  on  the  breast,  yet  I  have  never  heard  of 
an  albino  among  the  jays  and  orioles,  though  they  are  nearly 
related.  Ducks  are  frequently  albinistic,  and  so  are  quail  and 
grouse;  but  hawks  are  rarely,  if  ever,  affected  in  this  way. 
Sparrows  are  another  family  among  which  albinos  are  com- 
mon. I  have  had  a  snow-white  eaves  swallow  brought  to  me, 
and  have  seen  a  cherry  bird  all  white  except  the  yellow  tip  of 
the  tail.  Thrushes  also  not  infrequently  show  signs  of  albi- 
nism, but  I  have  never  seen  an  albino  warbler  nor  a  white  fly- 
catcher. This  is  not  saying  that  these  freaks  will  not  be 
discovered  by  sharp  eyes;  rather  it  shows  that  in  certain 
groups  the  accident  is  rarer  than  in  others. 

Even  rarer  than  albinism  and  certainly  far  prettier  is  an 
occasional  paleness  of  plumage  that  gives  the  whole  bird  a 
delicate  cafe-au-lait  color  —  just  the  shade  of  coffee  with  cream 
I  have  seen  this  in  ducks,  and  a  remarkable  case  of  it  in  a  robin, 
where  the  whole  head  and  upper  parts  were  delicate  creamy 
brown,  while  the  breast  was  as  red  as  in  an  ordinary  robin. 

Another  accident  sometimes  noticed  is  just  the  reverse  of 
albinism.  Instead  of  being  white,  the  bird  is  black  or  much 
darker  colored  than  usual,  sometimes  a  dark  chocolate  or 
deep  blackish  brown.  This  is  called  melanism,  from  the  Greek 
word  for  black,  just  as  albinism  comes  from  the  Latin  for  white. 
Melanism  is  most  frequent  among  the  hawks,  which  so  seldom 
show  traces  of  unusual  whiteness.  In  certain  hawks,  as  the 
red-tailed,  Swainson's,  and  the  rough-legged,  this  occurs  so 
often  that  it  is  probably  not  an  accident,  but  a  "  color  phase." 
Eobins  are  particularly  subject  to  melanotic  changes.  Some- 
times they  have  been'  reported  "  as  black  as  grackles." 

While  albinism  seems  to  be  permanent,  melanism  is  not 


WHITE  BLACKBIRDS  AND   OTHER  FREAKS.        117 

always  so.  Caged  birds  sometimes  turn  dark  in  moulting, 
and  then  moult  back  again.  A  robin  that  was  black  in 
infancy  afterward  acquired  white  wings  and  a  white  tail; 
while  another  that  was  caged  for  six  years  was  normally 
colored  for  the  first  two  years,  on  the  third  showed  some 
white  and  some  black  feathers,  on  the  fourth,  white  wings 
and  tail  and  a  black  breast,  with  red  under  the  wings  and  a 
white  belly.  The  fifth  year  it  was  normally  colored,  and  the 
last  year  it  was  red  below  and  black  above,  with  white  wings 
and  tail. 

The  "  color  phases  "  already  mentioned  form  another  class  of 
oddities.  No  one  knows  the  reason,  but  among  certain  groups 
of  birds  it  is  common  or  usual  for  individuals  to  be  some  of 
one  color,  some  of  another,  all  their  lives.  They  look  like 
entirely  different  species  of  birds,  and  yet  scientists  agree  that 
they  are  not.  This  is  a  very  common  freak  among  some  of 
the  sea-birds,  especially  the  jaegers  and  the  shearwaters,  in 
which  the  light  and  dark  phases  are  well  recognized.  In  one 
genus  of  owls,  and  in  one  or  two  of  the  heron  kind,  something 
like  it  occurs.  Of  two  little  screech  owls  from  the  same  nest, 
one  will  sometimes  be  gray  and  the  other  reddish  brown,  and 
so  far  as  is  known  they  will  keep  their  color  all  their  lives. 
This  phenomenon  is  sometimes  called  dichromatism  or  double 
coloring.  In  one  of  the  little  bitterns  a  supposed  black  di- 
chromatism has  been  discovered,  while  in  the  reddish  egret  a 
white  dichromatism  has  been  known  for  many  years.  The 
young  of  certain  herons  are  white,  while  the  old  birds  are  very 
dark  colored ;  but  this  is  not  called  dichromatism,  because  the 
color  depends  upon  the  age  of  the  bird.  However,  among  the 
reddish  egrets  specimens  are  frequently  seen  which  are  white 
all  their  life.  It  is  not  albinism,  because  the  white  is  always 
pure  white,  and  the  iris  is  not  pink,  but  white.  The  dark 


118  STRUCTURE  AND  COMPARISON. 

phase  of  the  bird  has  a  white  iris  also,  and  a  dark  and  a  light 
bird  will  frequently  mate  together. 

These  are  some  of  the  oddities  of  the  coloring  of  birds  which 
scientific  men  are  now  investigating  in  the  hope  of  discovering 
a  reason  for  them. 


PART   III. 

PROBLEMS  OF  BIED  LIFE. 


LITTLE   STUDIES   IN   ZOOLOGICAL   THEORY. 

"  Science  is  nothing  but  trained  and  organized  common 
sense."  —  HUXLEY. 


THE   BASIS   OF   CLASSIFICATION. 

WE  come  now  to  another  kind  of  science  work.*  We  are  no 
longer  asking :  What  ils  this  ?  or,  How  does  this  happen  ?  but 
Why  is  this  so  ?  Our  eyes  will  not  help  us  as  much  now,  but  if 
we  have  used  them  to  train  our  imaginations  and  have  laid  up 
a  good  store  of  facts,  we  are  ready  to  begin  these  more  diffi- 
cult but  far  more  interesting  studies. 

As  you  study,  you  will  see  more  and  more  that  science  is 
not  purposely  dry  and  hard  and  uninteresting,  but  that  it  is 
an  attempt  to  make  study  easier  by  grouping  together  related 
facts  so  that  you  will  have  fewer  of  them  to  remember.  A 
scientific  arrangement  is  always  the  easiest  arrangement.  A 
great  deal  of  scientific  work  is  only  an  attempt  to  sort  things 
of  a  kind  in  an  orderly  manner,  so  that  they  may  be  referred 
to  with  the  least  time  and  trouble. 

If  a  scientist  had  ten  thousand  living  creatures  of  all  sorts, 
from  bees  and  spiders  up  to  birds  and  beasts,  to  arrange  and 
name,  how  would  he  do  it  ? 

What  would  you  do  if  you  were  given  twenty  kinds  of  peas 
and  beans  mixed  together  in  a  basket,  and  were  told  to  sepa- 
rate each  kind  without  mistakes  ?  You  would  not  begin  by 
sorting  them  into  twenty  baskets ;  that  would  give  too  many 
chances  for  errors.  And  you  would  not  put  the  dwarf  peas 
with  the  dwarf  beans,  and  the  tall  peas  with  the  pole  beans, 
merely  because  their  habits  were  similar ;  nor  the  white  peas 
and  beans  together,  because  they  were  of  the  same  color,  for 
you  would  say  that  any  bean  is  more  like  every  other  bean 
than  it  is  like  any  pea. 

121 


122  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

First,  you  would  throw  all  the  beans  into  one  dish  and  all 
the  peas  into  another ;  then  you  would  take  one  of  these  dishes 
and  separate  the  plain  white  beans  from  the  spotted  ones,  and 
finally  you  would  sort  out  the  white  bush  beans  from  the 
white  limas,  and  the  spotted  yellow-eyes  from  the  streaked 
cranberry  beans,  putting  each  by  itself.  You  would  have 
classified  the  beans.  Then  you  would  classify  the  peas  in  the 
same  way.  To  classify  means  to  sort  out  into  kinds. 

Now  this  is  what  the  scientist  would  do  with  his  ten  thou- 
sand specimens.  He  would  classify  them.  For  convenience 
and  exactness  he  would  first  divide  them  into  but  two  classes, 
each  of  which  he  would  divide  again  and  again  into  two  more 
classes,  until  at  last  he  had  separated  each  kind  out  by  itself. 
It  is  never  safe  to  divide  into  more  than  two  classes  at  a  step 
for  fear  of  making  some  mistake. 

In  his  classification  the  scientist  would  try  to  find  out  the 
plans  on  which  these  creatures  were  made.  With  the  peas 
and  beans  you  very  rightly  judged  that  there  was  something 
within  the  seed  more  important  than  the  shape  or  color  of  it, 
and  you  soon  saw  that  the  kidney  shape  of  the  bean  and  the 
globular  shape  of  the  pea  stood  for  that  difference  within 
them  —  was  the  index,  as  we  say,  of  the  plan  on  which  each 
was  made,  while  the  size  and  color  only  served  to  tell  bean 
from  bean,  and  pea  from  pea. 

In  the  same  way  the  scientist  studies  his  animals  to  find 
out  the  plan  on  which  each  is  made  and  the  index  of  that 
plan.  He  finds  two  great  divisions  which  are  well  marked 
by  a  number  of  differences,  among  others  by  having,  or  not 
having,  bones.  It  seems  to  him  that  bones  are  the  index  to 
two  distinct  kinds  of  life,  so  he  culls  out  all  the  shellfish, 
worms,  spiders,  insects,  and  other  boneless  creatures  into 
a  group  by  themselves.  Those  with  bones  he  puts  into 


THE  BASIS  OF  CLASSIFICATION.  123 

another   group.      The   last  he  calls  vertebrate,  or  backboned 
animals. 

But  the  vertebrates  are  not  all  planned  alike.     Let  us  sort 
these  into  classes  as  we  did  the  peas  and  beans :  — 

Vertebrates,  creatures  with  a  backbone 


Without  a  skull  With  a  skull 

I.   Lancelets    | 

r  ~i 

Skull  imperfect  Skull  perfect 

II.    Lampreys 

Breathing  by  gills  all  their  life       Not  breathing  by  gills 
III.    Fishes  all  their  life 

1 I 

Having  a  metamorphosis         Not  having  a  meta- 
IV.   Batrachians  (Frogs,  morphosis 

toads,  etc.) 


Cold  blooded                     Warm  blooded 
V.   Reptiles                               | 

r~ 

Always  covered 
with  feathers 
VI.    Birds 

1 
Never  covered 
with  feathers 

1 

VII.    Mammals 

Thus  we  get  seven  classes  of  vertebrates.  In  some  such 
manner  as  this  the  scientist  would  sort  out  his  living  crea- 
tures, and  then  he  would  test  his  work  to  see  whether  he  had 
made  any  error.  He  would  ask  questions  about  each  group, 
and  then  would  make  out  a  little  table  of  answers.  Are 
mammals  warm  or  cold  blooded  ?  Do  birds  have  lungs  ? 
How  do  fishes  breathe?  How  are  reptiles  clothed?  How 
are  mammals  protected  ?  His  table  will  look  like  this  :  — 


124 


PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


Vertebrate  Animals. 


Fishes 

Batrachians 

Reptiles 

Birds 

Mammals 

Are     they     warm     or     cold 
blooded  ? 

*U 

Tt** 

&£d 

jj—- 

Have  they  a  metamorphosis 
(or  change  of  shape)  ? 
How  do  they  breathe  ? 
Do  they  lay  eggs  ? 
How  are  they  covered  ? 
What    sort    of    limbs    have 

&Lu 

J^ 

(  \jk*. 

^1^ 

f^ 

they  ? 

, 

By  writing  an  answer  to  each  question  and  reading  the 
columns  downward,  he  will  make  a  definition  of  each  class  of 
creatures.  Try  this  yourself  and  see  how  well  you  succeed. 
At  least  you  will  find '  yourself  giving  definitions  very  differ- 
ent from  those  you  would  have  given  a  few  minutes  before.  I 
suspect  that  had  you  been  asked  what  a  fish  is,  you  would 
have  said,  "A  fish  is  a  swimming  creature,"  and  you  would 
have  defined  a  tod  as  "a  creature  that  flies."  Then  what  a 
tangle  we  should  have  been  in !  There  are  birds  that  swim 
nearly  all  the  time,  and  mammals  that  cannot  live  out  of 
water,  reptiles  that  swim  as  well  as  fishes,  and  fishes  that 
come  out  on/  dry  land.  And  there  are  lizards  that  fly,  and 
reptiles  that  fly,  and  mammals  that  fly,  not  perhaps  as  well 
as  most  birds,  but  much  better  than  some  birds,  which  do  not 
fly  at  all. 

You  see  now  the  difference  between  a  scientific  definition 
and  an  unscientific  one.  The  scientific  definition  refers  to  one 
thing  or  class  of  things  and  to  nothing  else.  It  is  accurate. 
You  have  seen  how  scientific  definitions  are  made;  indeed, 


THE  BASIS  OF  CLASSIFICATION.  125 

you  have  been  told  how  to  make  them  yourself.  You  will 
not  be  troubled  in  this  book  with  either  making  or  learning 
definitions  that  are  not  necessary,  but  you  have  seen  that  the 
scientist  does  his  work  of  classifying  just  as  you  would  do 
yours,  that  is,  in  the  most  accurate  way,  which  in  the  end  is 
the  easiest  way. 


THE  DEGREES   IN   CLASSIFICATION. 

WE  have  discovered  that  the  basis  of  classification  is  differ- 
ence in  structure..  We  have  arrived  at  a  definition  of  a  bird 
which  enables  us  to  separate  all  winged,  feathered,  egg-lay- 
ing, warm-blooded  vertebrates  into  a  class  by  themselves.  We 
call  them  a  class  because  the  line  is  so  well  marked  between 
them  and  all  other  living  creatures.  They  form  a  group  by 
themselves  as  distinct  as  a  class  in  a  school  —  a  collection  of 
individuals  that  do  the  same  work  in  the  same  way. 

But  each  of  these  classes  may  be  sorted  out  still  farther. 
Let  us  take  the  class  Birds.  What  do  we  notice  first  ?  The 
differences  between  them.  We  see  that  some  are  simple  in 
structure  and  some  are  complex,  that  they  are  of  all  degrees 
of  simplicity  and  complexity.  So  we  divide  them  by  their 
rank  into  orders,  just  as  classes  in  school  are  often  divided 
into  sections  according  to  their  scholarship.  An  order  is  a 
division  by  grade.  Really  an  order  means  a  row  or  line  com- 
posed of  different  objects  of  the  same  kind,  especially  a  file 
of  soldiers.  But  we  so  often  compare  the  lower  orders  and 
the  higher  orders  that  it  is  perfectly  correct  to  think  of  them 
as  divisions  into  grades.  This  grade  is  decided  by  men  who 
have  studied  every  bone  and  muscle  in  the  bird  and  who 
know  what  each  one  means.  They  take  no  notice  of  the  size 
and  color  of  the  bird,  but  study  its  structure  and  decide 
whether  it  is  built  on  a  simple  or  on  a  complex  plan. 

The  orders  are  divided  into  families.  While  it  takes  a  very 
wise  man  to  decide  what  birds  make  up  an  order,  it  is  not 

126 


THE  DEGREES  IN  CLASSIFICATION.  127 

usually  very  difficult  to  decide  which  belong  to  the  same 
family.  A  family  is  a  division  by  relationship.  The  members 
need  not  be  of  the  same  size  or  color,  but  they  usually  have 
the  same  look  or  similar  habits.  Who  would  not  say  that 
all  the  horned  owls  belonged  to  one  family?  They  may  be 
very  unlike  in  pize,  but  they  have  the  family  nose  and  eyes. 

The  next  division  below  a  family  is  a  genus.  A  genus  com- 
prises those  kinds  so  closely  related  that  we  judge  they  may  have 
had  a  common  ancestor.  Birds  of  the  same  genus  are  usually 
nearly  alike  in  size  and  often  have  some  peculiar  color  pattern 
which  makes  them  look  alike,  but  the  surest  marks  are  re- 
semblances in  feet,  bill,  wings,  and  tail. 

A  species  is  the  next  and  final  division.  We  cannot  go  any 
farther  in  our  classification.  A  species  includes  all  the  birds 
so  near  alike  that  they  cannot  be  told  apart  by  any  permanent 
peculiarity.  Each  species  has  its  own  marks,  colors,  and  shapes, 
and  mates  with  its  own  kind,  never  (except  by  a  rare  accident) 
with  any  other  species. 

When  we  have  separated  our  specimens  into  species,  we 
have  found  the  unit  of  classification. 


HOW   BIRDS   ARE  NAMED, 

IF  we  were  asked  to  find  names  for  all  the  many  hundreds 
of  different  species  of  birds  that  live  in  this  country,  we  should 
understand  better  than  we  can  now  how  hard  it  is  to  invent 
appropriate  names.  Some  we  would  naturally  name  from  their 
actions,  as  woodpeckers,  creepers,  divers,  and  humming-birds. 
To  some  we  would  give  good  old  names  that  have  no  meaning 
to  us  now,  but  that  have  come  over  the  ocean  with  our  ancestors, 
as  ducks,  thrushes,  snipe,  grebes,  and  gulls.  Some  good  names 
are  suggested  by  the  calls  and  songs  of  birds,  as  whippoorwill, 
bobolink,  towhee,  phoebe,  pewee,  and  cuckoo.  Others  are  gay- 
colored,  and  we  readily  select  their  color  as  their  most  strik- 
ing peculiarity  and  call  them  bluebirds,  redbirds,  yellowbirds, 
or  blackbirds.  But  still  there  are  more  birds  than  names  for 
us  to  give  them. 

We  see  that  it  is  not  a  simple  task  to  name  all  the  birds  of 
a  country,  much  less  all  those  of  the  world.  But  the  scientist, 
who  must  first  of  all  be  exact  in  all  he  does,  must  have  a  differ- 
ent name  for  each  bird.  So  he  selects  the  best  of  the  popular 
names,  and  by  adding  descriptive  words,  as  red-headed  wood- 
pecker, black-backed  gull,  ring-necked  duck,  he  makes  a  com- 
pound name  that  will  describe  the  bird ;  or  he  names  it  from 
the  place  it  lives  in,  as  Californian  cuckoo,  Carolina  chickadee, 
Arizona  sparrow. 

There  is  still  a  great  difficulty.  Many  times  the  same  name 
is  applied  to.very  different  birds  in  various  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. What  is  a  partridge?  The  New  Englander  says  it  is 
the  ruffed  grouse ;  the  Virginian  says  tliat  the  ruffed  grouse 

128 


HOW  BIRDS  ARE  NAMED.  129 

is  a  pheasant  arid  the  little  quail  is  a  partridge ;  the  man  from 
the  Pacific  coast  when  speaking  of  pheasants  means  the  beauti- 
ful ring-necked  pheasant  imported  from  China.  When  they 
talk  together,  they  are  sure  to  disagree,  because  they  have  in 
mind  entirely  different  birds.  With  other  birds  it  is  even 
worse.  A  gaunet  is  usually  supposed  to  be  a  short-legged  sea- 
bird  that  dives  from  the  wing,  but  in  Florida  a  long-legged 
wading  bird,  elsewhere  known  as  the  wood-ibis,  is  called  a 
gannet.  In  Louisiana  a  white  egret,  a  kind  of  heron,  is  called 
a  grosbeak,  but  in  other  places  a  grosbeak  is  a  small  perching 
bird.  The  water-turkey  of  Florida  is  the  snake-bird,  or 
anhinga,  a  great  web-footed  creature,  a  cousin  of  the  cormo- 
rant ;  but  with  Nevada  miners  the  little  water-ousel,  a  relation 
of  the  cat-bird,  is  a  "water-turkey."  In  Colorado  the  same 
bird  is  known  as  a  "  water-wren,"  a  much  better  name  than 
either  of  the  others.  There  is  no  limit  to  the  number  of 
interchanges  of  name  like  these.  And  the  situation  is  not 
improved  by  some  birds  having  ten,  twenty,  or  even  thirty 
names  in  different  parts  of  the  country. 

What  is  the  scientist  to  do  ?  He  gives  the  bird  a  Latin  name 
that  is  to  apply  to  that  one  bird  and  to  nothing  else ;  and  he 
either  translates  the  Latin  name  into  English,  or  selects  the 
best-known  English  name  as  the  standard  English  name.  So 
every  bird  has  at  least  two  names  that  in  the  usage  of  science 
apply  to  itself  and  to  no  other  bird. 

Who  names  the  birds  ? ,  It  used  to  be  that  the  man  who  dis- 
covered them  gave  them  both  an  English  and  a  Latin  name ; 
but  now  the  discoverer  less  often  names  them  himself.  Instead, 
he  sends  the  bird  to  some  man  whose  whole  time  is  spent  in 
studying  birds,  to  determine  whether  it  is  really  new  or  not ; 
and  if  this  man  decides  that  the  bird  is  something  never  seen 
before,  he  gives  it  a  name. 


CONCERNING   THE   BIRD'S   LATIN   NAME. 

Do  not  think  that  Latin  names  are  useless  or  meaningless. 
Do  not  think  that  anything  in  science  is  done  without  a 
reason.  We  shall  neither  use  Latin  names  nor  talk  about 
them  after  this  chapter,  because  you  ought  not  to  get  the  im- 
pression that  learning  hard  names  is  studying  science  ;  but  in 
this  short  chapter  I  wish  to  tell  you  why  these  long  names  are 
useful. 

In  the  first  place,  the  hard  names  in  science  enable  you  to 
say  exactly  what  you  mean  to  say.  Of  course,  it  is  of  no 
advantage  for  you  to  know  the  words  themselves  if  you  use 
them  inaccurately  ;  but  if  you  know  precisely  what  they  mean, 
these  scientific  terms  will  make  it  possible  for  you  to  speak 
with  so  much  exactness  that  you  cannot  be  mistaken.  The 
Latin  names  of  birds,  like  all  other  scientific  terms,  have  this 
precision,  and  are  ordinarily  preferred  to  the  English  names, 
which  may  be  indefinite. 

A  bird's  Latin  name  is  made  up  in  a  particular  way  and  has 
a  particular  significance.  The  same  is  true  of  the  Latin  name 
of  every  fish,  insect,  reptile,  or  living  creature,  and  also  of  all 
the  botanical  names,  so  that  what  we  are  about  to  say  of  the 
names  of  birds  holds  true  of  the  Latin  names  of  all  other 
creatures  or  plants. 

If  you  understand  Latin  and  Greek,  the  name  will  tell 
you  something  about  the  bird.  Is  not  Oceanites,  "  the  sons 
of  the  ocean,"  a  pretty  name  for  a  group  of  petrels  ?  Another 
genus  of  the  same  birds  has  a  name  meaning  "  wave  dancers," 
which  beautifully  describes  their  habits.  Take  Pinicola  enu- 

130 


CONCERNING   THE  BIRD'S  LATIN  NAME.          131 

deator,  the  name  of  the  pine  grosbeak.  It  means  "  the  bird 
that  dwells  in  the  pine  woods  and  shells  out  nuts,"  a  name 
which  tells  us  something  of  the  habits  of  the  bird.  Some 
names  tell  us  of  the  color,  or  the  shape,  or  the  home  of  the 
bird;  but  all  have  some  appropriate  meaning.1 

The  Latin  name  of  every  plant  and  animal  is  made  up  of 
either  two  or  three  words,  usually  of  two.  The  first  always  is 
the  name  of  the  genus,  and  the  second  is  the  descriptive  word 
added  to  point  out  the  species.  So  that  birds'  names  are  like 
boys'  names  —  a  Christian  name,  like  James,  and  a  surname, 
like  Brown,  together  making  up  the  whole  name  of  the  bird. 
Only  in  the  case  of  a  bird  the  surname  is  placed  first,  and  the 
Christian  name  after  it,  as  Brown,  James,  and  Brown,  John, 
are  sometimes  written  in  directories  and  lists  of  voters.  This 
places  all  the  Browns  together,  and  is  more  convenient  for 
ready  reference.  For  the  same  reason  the  bird's  generic  name 
is  always  written  first;  it  makes  it  easier  to  refer  to  all  the 
birds  that  are  nearly  related,  and  it  is  also  better  Latin. 

Let  us  take  the  name  Dryobates  pubescens,  the  name  of  the 
downy  woodpecker.  The  first  name,  which  means  "  one  that 
walks  on  trees,"  tells  us  that  it  belongs  to  the  genus  Dryobates, 
so  that  we  know  at  once  what  other  birds  it  most  resembles ; 
the  second  name  tells  us  that  it  is  a  soft  and  downy  bird.  But 
what  are  we  to  think  when  we  meet  with  Dryobates  pubescens 
medianus,  the  name  of  the  little  downy  woodpecker  of  New 
England,  our  smallest  and  oae  of  our  commonest  woodpeckers  ? 
Why  do  some  birds  have  two  and  some  have  three  names  ? 
The  third  name  shows  that  the  bird. is  a  subspecies  of  Dryo- 
bates pubescens.  But  this  opens  a  very  puzzling  question, 
which  we  must  discuss  in  another  chapter. 

1  Barring,  of  course,  the  few  "nonsense  names"  of  some  of  the  earlier 
naturalists. 


A  SUBSPECIES. 

You  will  recollect  that  we  said  classification  does  not  go 
below  species;  that  the  species  is  the  unit  of  classification. 
This  is  very  true.  But  may  we  not  divide  a  unit  ?  A  sub- 
species is  a  fraction  of  a  species.1 

We  can  see  by  a  little  illustration  what  is  meant,  A  red- 
cheeked  apple  may  sometimes  be  divided  so  that  one  half  will 
appear  to  be  entirely  red  and  the  other  entirely  green ;  yet 
when  the  halves  are  put  together,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  where 
the  green  fades  and  the  red  begins.  Taken  separately,  we 
might  suppose  they  were  halves  of  two  different  apples,  but 
when  put  together  they  fit  perfectly.  It  takes  both  the  red 
and  the  green  parts  to  make  a  whole  apple. 

As  we  travel  from  east  to  west  or  from  north  to  south,  we 
shall  often  find  the  birds  that  we.  know  well  singing  different 
songs,  showing  a  different  shade  of  color,  or  we  shall  see  that 
they  are  larger  or  smaller  than  the  same  bird  was  in  our  own 
home.  If  we  were  to  compare  one  from  the  extreme  East  with 
one  from  the  far  South,  we  should  not  believe  them  to  be  the 
same  bird,  and  yet  as  we  travelled  we  could  nowhere  say, 
"These  birds  to-day  are  different  from  those  I  saw  yester- 
day." There  were  all  possible  gradations  of  color  and  habit, 
like  that  play  of  color  between  the  red  cheek  of  the  apple  and 
its  greener  side.  The  change  came  little  by  little,  as  the  rosy 
flush  grew  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  apple.  So  we  cannot  say 

1  These  are  not  given  as  definitions  of  species  and  subspecies,  but  as  con- 
venient descriptions.  As  definitions  they  would  "  beg  the  question." 

132 


A   SUBSPECIES.  133 

that  all  these  birds  are  not  the  same  species,  because  there 
is  no  fixed  difference  between  them. 

But  it  becomes  convenient  to  have  some  way  of  showing 
that  there  are  differences.  So  we  cut  the  species  up  into 
pieces,  as  it  were,  just  as  we  did  the  apple.  We  take  the' 
whole  range  of  the  species  and  divide  the  country  up  into  as 
many  portions  as  there  are  peculiar  varieties  of  the  species, 
and  give  to  all  the  birds  of  the  species  that  live  in  each  section 
a  name  that  tells  the  scientist  just  what  part  of  the  country 
the  bird  comes  from.  Most  birds  do  not  have  any  sub- 
species; that  is,  they  are  alike  wherever  we  find  them.  Of 
the  rest,  most  do  not  have  more  than  one  subspecies  besides 
the  original  form,  one  of  them  being  found  in  the  East  and 
the  other  in  the  West.  But  some,  and  they  are  usually  among 
our  best-known  birds,  have  three  or  four  or  a  half-dozen  sub- 
species. The  ruffed  grouse  has  four,  the  downy  woodpecker 
five,  the  hairy  woodpecker  six,  the  horned  owl  five,  the 
screech  owl  nine,  the  horned  lark  eleven,  and  our  common 
song  sparrow  twelve  recognized  forms.  Sometimes  a  sub- 
species will  be  found  only  on  a  small  island  far  off  from  land, 
sometimes  on  a  desert,  or  sometimes  confined  within  other 
narrow  limits,  but  most  of  them  are  spread  over  a  large  extent 
of  country.  Because  these  subspecies  are  found  in  different 
parts  of  the  country,  they  are  frequently  called  "  geographical 
races." 

It  is  often  supposed  that  the  birds  with  two  Latin  names 
are  the  only  ones  of  any  importance,  and  that  those  with 
three  names  are  a  mere  afterthought  of  science  or  nature. 
This  is  an  error.  When  a  species  is  split  up  into  different 
forms,  all  the  forms  composing  it  are  subspecies,  and  one  is  no 
more  important  than  another  unless  it  is  more  abundant. 
When  you  cut  an  apple,  all  the  parts  are  fractions ;  when  you 


134  PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

divide  a  species,  all  the  divisions  are  subspecies.  But  out  of 
respect  for  the  man  who  first  discovered  the  bird,  it  is  cus- 
tomary to  reserve  for  the  subspecies  which  he  described  the 
name  that  he  gave  it,  so  that  the  form  first  described  always 
holds  first  place  on  the  list  and  has  but  two  words  in  its 
Latin  name,  while  the  other  races  follow  usually  in  the  order 
of  discovery,  with  three-word  names.  It  usually  happens, 
as  the  East  was  settled  first,  that  the  Eastern  birds  were 
described  first  and  stand  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  divisions 
of  species.  Sometimes  the  reverse  is  the  case.  The  bronzed 
grackle,  the  crow  blackbird  of  New  England,  is  a  subspecies  of 
the  more  Western  crow  blackbird,  the  purple  grackle.  Every- 
body knew  the  bird,  but  until  recently  no  one  had  noticed  that 
the  gloss  of  its  feathers  was  unlike  that  of  the  more  abundant 
and  earlier  described  purple  grackle.  When  this  was  observed, 
the  northeastern  bird  was  marked  off  as  a  new  subspecies, 
because  the  birds  first  described,  the  "  type  specimens,"  were 
of  the  other  sort. 

Perhaps  we  see  now  why  the  Latin  name  is  a  help  to  the 
naturalist,  and  how  it  is  that  the  same  bird  will  look  and 
act  differently  in  various  parts  of  the  country. 

Indeed,  it  is  much  easier  to  see  why  there  should  be  sub- 
species than  to  decide  to  which  subspecies  a  bird  belongs. 
But  that  is  the  work  of  the  scientist ;  all  that  is  important 
for  us  to  know  is  why  he  separates  a  species  into  smaller 
groups,  and  what  a  three-word  Latin  name  indicates. 


THE   THREE   GREAT   PROBLEMS   OF   BIRD   LIFE. 

I  WOULD  like  to  have  you  think  of  a  bird  that  is  not  some  par- 
ticular kind  of  a  bird,  not  a  sparrow,  nor  a  dove,  nor  a  robin, 
but  just  a  bird.  Do  not  imagine  it  as  either  large  or  small, 
as  having  any  peculiar  shape,  or  any  particular  color,  as  a  bird 
that  lives  in  some  special  place  or  feeds  upon  a  certain  kind 
of  food ;  but  such  a  bird  as  you  might  hear  calling  in  the  dark 
and  know  it  was  a  bird,  yet  know  nothing  more.  I  want  you 
to  think  just  plain  bird. 

This  is  easiest  done  by  imagining  that  you  are  a  bird  your- 
self. 

What  is  the  first  thing  you  would  really  long  for  ?  What 
is  your  greatest  need  ? 

If  you  were  a  boy  you  would  say,  "Something  to  eat." 
Because  you  are  a  bird  would  your  wants  be  so  very  differ- 
ent? Men  and  birds  are  alike  in  that  both  have  to  spend 
most  of  their  lives  hunting  for  something  to  satisfy  their 
appetites.  Food  is  the  first  problem. 

What  will  be  your  next  want  ?  Warmth,  do  you  say  ?  It 
is  very  necessary  to  keep  warm,  but  with  a  good  coat  of 
feathers  and  two  wings,  you  would  fly  to  a  warmer  region 
just  as  naturally  as  a  boy  goes  into  the  house  when  the  air 
nips  too  keenly.  You  will  not  be  anxious  on  that  score, 
unless  some  accident  befalls  you.  , 

A  more  important  question  with  the  bird  is  how  to  keep 
away  from  his  enemies.  These  hunt  him  constantly  while 
he  is  seeking  his  necessary  food.  To  get  his  food  without 

135 


136  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

being   caught   himself    is   the   bird's   most   important   study. 
Shall  we  not  put  down  Safety  as  the  second  problem  ? 

The  third  problem  is  not  so  easily  hit  upon  as  these  last ; 
but  we  know  that  though  the  life  of  each  particular  bird  is 
short,  it  is  necessary  that  the  same  kinds  of  birds  should 
exist  as  long  as  possible.  Unless  a  bird  has  little  ones,  that 
kind  of  bird  will  die  out ;  it  will  become  an  extinct  species. 
Now  it  is  not  intended  that  any  bird  or  plant  or  living 
creature  should  become  extinct  until  it  has  been  fairly  crowded 
out  of  existence  by  some  better  or  stronger  kind  of  plant  or 
animal.  To  prevent  this  happening  by  the  creature's  own 
fault  there  was  implanted  in  it  an  instinct  almost  as  strong 
as  its  desire  for  food,  and  stronger  than  its  love  of  safety, 
which  urges  it  to  choose  a  mate  and  to  spend  its  time  and  risk 
its  life  in  rearing  a  family  of  little  ones.  This  is  the  family 
instinct,  and  this  whole  problem  of  the  bird's  life  is  called  by 
the  name  of  Reproduction. 

Food,  Safety,  Reproduction,  —  these  are  the  three  great 
interests  of  a  bird's  life.  We  may  of  course  carry  the  analysis 
one  step  farther  and  say  that  food  and  safety  are  the  means  of 
preserving  the  bird's  own  life,  and  are  selfish  instincts,  while 
reproduction  is  an  unselfish  instinct,  which  gives  us  two  prob- 
lems, self-preservation  and  self-perpetuation.  But  for  our 
study  it  is  best  to  stop  with  the  three,  food  and  safety  and  re- 
production. Of  these  three  the  bird  must  be  constantly  think- 
ing, and  to  secure  them  he  must  be  continually  working. 

Now  it  is  a  law,  both  of  your  life  and  of  every  creature's, 
that  what  he  thinks  of  constantly  and  works  for  continually 
has  an  effect  both  upon  his  body  and  upon  his  mind.  Often 
we  can  tell  a  man's  trade  and  opinions  by  his  look,  his  walk,  or 
his  figure.  For  the  same  reason  what  a  bird  eats,  how  he 
secures  it,  how  he  provides  for  his  safety,  and  how  he  brings 


THE   THREE  GREAT  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE.      137 

up  his  little  ones  will  have  a  large  effect  upon  his  shape,  his 
color,  and  his  habits.  If  you  knew  nothing  of  a  bird  but 
what  he  fed  on,  how  he  got  it,  and  how  he  nested,  you  could 
tell  a  great  deal  about  his  appearance.  It  was  that  you  might 
better  understand  what  is  to  follow  concerning  the  changes 
of  a  bird's  structure,  color,  and  habits  that  are  brought  about 
by  the  way  he  solves  these  problems  of  bird  life,  that  I  asked 
you  to  suppose  that  you  were  plain  birds. 


THE  FIRST  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

FOOD    AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    STRUCTURE. 

HERE  we  are,  we  plain  birds,  and  we  are  hungry.  What 
shall  we  eat  ? 

If  we  were  boys,  we  should  say,  "  Whatever  we  can  get  easi- 
est, if  we  like  it."  Our  choice  would  depend  on  whether  we 
preferred  to  gratify  our  appetites  or  our  laziness  ;  also,  though 
all  boys  appear  to  have  the  same  powers,  on  the  presence  or 
absence  of  some  peculiar  accomplishment  or  intrepidity.  The 
skilful  fisherman  would  catch  fish,  the  daring  climber  might 
climb  trees  for  nuts,  and  perhaps  those  without  such  special 
gifts  would  pick  berries.  Though  all  might  prefer  the  same 
food,  some  would  be  so  much  more  active  that  they  would 
secure  the  whole  of  it  before  the  others  could  get  any.  Rather 
than  go  hungry  the  others  would  take  second  choice  or  third 
choice  or  whatever  was  left,  according  to  their  strength  and 
skill.  The  art  of  getting  your  own  dinner  is  to  make  up  your 
bill  of  fare  of  what  you  can  get  easily  and  in  abundance  — 
provided  it  suits  your  taste. 

Now  if  we  plain  birds  must  hunt  our  dinners,  we  ought,  as 
the  boys  say,  "to  have  an  eye  out  for  the  main  chance."  We 
have  our  preferences,  no  doubt.  We  also  have  our  fitness  or 
unfitness  for  getting  what  we  prefer.  Our  "  main  chance  " 
lies,  first  of  all,  in  our  swiftness  of  locomotion,  of  one  sort  or 
another.  The  one  that  flies  better  than  he  walks,  covers  most 
ground  by  flying.  He  will,  therefore,  be  most  likely  to  secure 
a  dinner  quickly  by  flying  around  in  search  of  it.  The  one 
that  swims  well,  but  flies  poorly,  travels  farthest  with  least 

138 


THE  FIRST  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  139 

exertion  by  swimming,  and  will  find  it  to  his  advantage  to 
seek  his  prey  in  or  near  the  water.  The  bird  with  strong  legs 
and  short  wings  will  cover  ground  more  easily  by  running  than 
by  flying,  so  he  will  naturally  look  for  his  food  on  the  ground. 
Each  one  would  employ  his  natural  advantage  or  accomplish- 
ment as  the  easiest  way  of  getting  his  food. 

Now  hunting  for  something  to  eat  takes  up  nearly  all  the 
time  of  these  plain  birds,  so  that  the  one  that  is  fond  of  swim- 
ming spends  most  of  his  time  in  the  water ;  the  one  that  likes 
to  run  trots  about  so  steadily  that  he  flies  very  little  unless 
frightened  or  in  danger ;  while  the  one  that  is  light  and  swift 
of  wing  spends  his  day  in  the  air.  You  can  guess  the  result. 
Each  one  grows  more  and  more  adept  in  his  own  favorite 
mode  of  hunting  and  less  and  less  adapted  to  following  any 
other  method.  As  the  swimmer  neither  flies  nor  walks  much, 
he  may  at  last  become  incapable  of  doing  either  with  any  ease  : 
the  penguins  that  cannot  fly  and  the  grebes  that  cannot  walk 
are  such  birds.  The  runner  may,  like  the  ostrich,  become  as 
swift  of  foot  as  a  horse,  yet  lose  his  power  of  flight.  The 
strong-winged  flying  bird  may,  like  the  swallow,  be  tireless  on 
the  wing  and  yet  scarcely  a  We  to  walk.  Not  only  do  they 
grow  unlike  in  the  parts  they  exercise  constantly,  but  also  in 
the  parts  they  neglect  to  use.  The  limbs  and  muscles  in  con- 
stant use  grow  large  and  strong  ;  those  that  are  disused  become 
feeble  and  pine  away,  or  else  stay  undeveloped. 

But  soine  one  asks  if  I  mean  to  say  that  a  penguin,  an 
ostrich,  and  a  swallow  were  ever  one  bird.  No,  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that.  But  I  wished  you  to  notice  that  if  there  ever 
was  a  time  —  as  many  believe  —  when  all  the  birds  were  just 
plain  birds  (undifferentiated,  a  scientist  would  say),  they  could 
not  have  remained  so.  They  were  bound  to  change,  and 
they  were  bound  to  grow  unlike. 


140  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

For  see  how  it  is  with  men.  The  blacksmith  is  not  like  the 
soldier,  nor  the  bicycler  like  the  tailor.  They  use  different 
sets  of  muscles,  and  the  men  are  unlike  in  size,  shape,  and 
accomplishments.  The  blacksmith  can  bend  an  iron  bar,  but 
he  could  not  catch  a  runner  in  a  race ;  and  neither  he  nor  the 
runner  could  make  his  fingers  fly  like  the  slender  white  fin- 
gers of  the  musician.  If  blacksmiths'  sons  were  always  black- 
smiths and  musicians'  children  musical,  we  might  expect  much 
more  remarkable  differences. 

In  like  manner,  a  bird's  work  changes  its  shape  and  struc- 
ture ;  eating  one  kind  of  food,  using  one  form  of  exercise,  the 
bird,  like  the  man,  grows  better  and  better  fitted  to  follow  his 
own  trade  and  more  unfitted  to  take  up  any  .other.  We  say 
he  becomes  adapted  to  his  kind  of  life,  and  that  his  structure 
is  modified  (that  is,  changed)  by  his  search  for  food. 

This  is  the  first  problem  of  bird  life  — to  find  food.  This  is 
the  principle,  —  The  search  for  food  results  in  modifications  of 
structure.  Take  this  principle  and  see  how  it  will  explain  the 
shape  of  many  kinds  of  birds  that  you  see.  Why  is  the  swal- 
low so  swift  and  light  of  wing  ?  He  hunts  little  dancing,  flit- 
ting flies.  Why  is  the  humming-bird  so  slender-billed  and 
quick-winged  ?  He  seeks  his  insects  out  of  the  long  tubes  of 
flowers  as  he  poises  buzzing  before  the  blossoms.  ,  Why  is  the 
yellow  warbler  so  trim  and  dainty  ?  He,  too,  eats  insects, 
but  such  as  he  finds  in  his  pathway  as  he  trips  along  the 
branches,  and  so  he  needs  neither  strong  wings  nor  long  prob- 
ing bill.  All  three  feed  .on  insects,  but  they  find  them  in 
different  places  and  hunt  for  them  in  different  ways.  The 
way  they  find  their  food  —  not  the  kind  of  food  itself  — 
decides  what  the  structure  of  the  bird  will  be. 

You  may  be  able  to  discover  for  yourselves  why  the  heron, 
the  loon,  and  the  sea  gull,  which  all  live  on  fish,  are  yet  so 


THE  FIRST  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  141 

very  different  from  each  other.  Find  out  the  places  each  pre- 
fers to  live  in  and  how  he  hunts  his  food,  then  see  if  these 
facts  will  not  explain  why  the  heron's  neck  and  beak  and  legs 
are  so  long,  why  the  gull's  "wings  are  so  strong,  and  why  the 
loon,  though  it  cannot  walk  much  nor  fly  easily,  is  a  better 
fisherman  than  either  of  the  others. 


THE   SECOND   PKOBLEM   OF   BIRD   LIFE. 

SAFETY    AND    ITS    RELATION    TO    COLOR. 

FROM  plain  birds  structurally  alike  we  have  become  trans- 
formed into  birds  of  very  different  shapes,  —  long-billed  and 
short-billed,  long-legged  and  short-legged,  large  and  small. 
Let  us  learn  how  the  second  problem  of  bird  life,  that  of 
providing  for  our  own  safety,  affects  us. 

We  have  enemies.  Other  creatures,  which  like  ourselves 
have  their  first  problem  to  solve,  are  trying  to  kill  us  for  food. 
Some  fishes  will  swallow  us  greedily  when  we  are  swimming ; 
other  birds  have  learned  to  prey  on  their  own  kind  and  hover 
in  air  ready  to  swoop  down  upon  us;  snakes  creep  up  to 
our  nests  and  devour  us ;  even  large  spiders  will  occasionally 
terrify  and  capture  the  tiniest  of  us ;  but  most  numerous  and 
most  destructive  are  the  quadrupeds  of  prey  that  hunt  us 
incessantly  and  with  great  success.  How  are  we  to  get  our 
necessary  food  while  exposed  to  these  persecutions  ? 

Our  greatest  security  would  come  not  from  weapons  but 
from  some  means  of  escaping  observation.  In  the  days  when 
men  fought  the  Indians,  how  did  they  avoid  being  seen? 
Partly  by  silent,  secret  habits,  and  partly  by  their  suits  of 
homespun  and  dull  colors  which  blended  with  their  surround- 
ings. The  British  soldier  with  his  scarlet  coat  was  a  mark 
that  could  be  seen  far  off,  and  the  straps  crossing  on  his  breast 
gave  the  Revolutionary  marksman  a  sure  guide  to  his  heart. 
Many  a  British  soldier  fell  because  his  uniform  prevented 
any  concealment.  The  modern  khaki,  which  has  been  adopted 

142 


THE  SECOND  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  143 

instead,  offers  protection  to  the  soldiers  because  it  is  not 
easily  distinguished  from  its  surroundings. 

But  how  are  we  birds  that  cannot  change  our  coats  to 
take  advantage  of  such  means  of  concealment  ?  Let  us  take 
a  broad  view  of  the  subject.  If  we  were  to  fly  far  above 
the  earth,  it  would  appear  to  us,'  I  fancy,  very  much  like 
those  colored  plates  of  hemispheres  arid  continents  in  our 
geographies.  So,  indeed,  it  appears  looking  down  from  a 
mountain  top.  All  the  country  round  is  spread  out  before 
us  like  a  painted  card.  The  sandy  stretches  shine  white  in 
the  sunlight;  the  less  barren,  but  still  infertile,  spots  show 
buff  or  brown ;  ploughed  lands  appear  in  squares  of  all 
colors,  from  yellow  to  black,  according  to  the  soil;  and 
meadows,  grain  fields,  gardens,  and  forests  are  each  green 
alter  its  own  kind.  If  our  view  could  be  extended  to  in- 
clude a  whole  hemisphere,  we  should  still  find  it  marked  off 
in  fields  not  less  vivid  in  color  than  these  laid  out  by  men, 
but  less  regular  in  outline.  We  should  see  the  deserts  sparkle 
with  sand,  the  plains  lying  bare  and  buff  with  clay  beds,  the 
river  courses  and  watered  countries  spread  out  in  green  cham- 
paigns, the  mountain  chains  standing  like  rows  of  crystals 
and  striped  like  tourmalines  from  their  green  bases  to  their 
white  and  icy  summits.  And  the  whole  glowing  picture 
would  shade  away  from  the  luxuriant  and  almost  sombre 
vegetation  of  the  green  tropics  to  the  wind-cropped  mosses 
of  the  brown  and  barren  north. 

What  colors  would  best  befit  a  bird  of  the  tropics  ?  or  a 
bird  of  the  deserts  ?  or  a  bird  of  the  arctic  north  ?  Greens 
for  one,  dusty  browns  or  tawny  for  the  next,  and  brown  or 
white  for  the  last.  As  a  matter  of  fact  we  find  this  actually 
true.  The  birds  of  the  tropics  wear  the  gayest  of  coats,  and 
have  among  them  a  large  proportion  of  birds  wholly  or  partly 


144  PROBLKM*    OF   lilRD   Llb'K 


green.  Birds  of  temperate  regions  are  rarely  gay  in  color, 
most  of  them  being  of  soft  browns  or  grays  or  blues  or  thill 
olive  shades.  Many  of  the  most  northern  land-birds  and 
mammals  undergo  a  remarkable  seasonal  change,  so  that 
they  are  brown  in  summer  to  match  the  heaths  about  them 
and  white  in  winter  like  the  driven  snow.  Indeed,  among  the 
few  birds  that  you  know  yourself,  do  you  not  find  sparrows 
most  commonly  on  the  open  fields  and  dusty  roadsides,  while 
the  greenish  vireos  and  flycatchers,  and  the  bright  orioles  and 
tanagers,  stay  among  the  tree-tops  and  the  blossoms?  It  is  a 
hint  of  what  Nature  is  doing  on  a  large  scale  the  world  over. 
Unless  there  is  some  good  reason  for  another  color,  we  shall 
find  the  bird  harmonizing  with  the  prevailing  surface  color  of 
the  region  he  inhabits,  or  with  the  light  and  shade  of  his 
favorite  haunts. 

But  the  very  first  birds  that  ever  were,  plain  birds,  such  as 
we  imagined  ourselves  to  be,  must  have  been  either  of  one 
tint,  or  of  we  do  not  know  what  shades  and  mixtures.  How 
can  we  explain  the  change  from  this  unknown  primitive  color 
to  the  kaleidoscopic  colors  of  birds  to-day  ?  Could  we  plain 
birds  change  our  colors  as  we  changed  our  shapes  ? 

Yes,  we  could  change  our  colors,  not  as  a  man  does  his  coat 
(except  in  the  seasonal  moult,  which  is  another  problem),  but- 
just  as  we  changed  onr  shape.  Let  us  go  back  to  our  analog}* 
of  boys  and  birds.  If  we  were  boys,  could  we  not  change  our 
color?  Does  your  mother  never  say  after  a  summer  at  the 
seashore  :  "  How  your  hair  has  faded  !  How  tanned  and  sun- 
burned you  are  !  "  And.  after  a  long  illness,  your  visitors 
notice  how  pale  you  have  grown.  These  are  instances  of  boys 
changing  their  color.  Wind,  sun,  and  rain  —  in  other  words, 
climate  —  will  alter  a  man's  complexion  very  much.  In  time 
it  will  change  a  whole  nation's  so  that  a  certain  complexion 


THE  SECOND  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  145 

becomes  national,  as  the  olive  skin  and  dark  hair  of  the 
Italian,  and  the  fair  hair  and  white  skin  of  the  Scandinavian. 

If  climate  can  alter  a  man's  color,  why  should  it  not  aft'ect 
the  birds'  ?  It  does.  The  suns  of  the  desert  bleach  them ; 
the  humidity  of  wet  and  dripping  forests  removes  the  brighter 
hues  and  leaves  dull  blues  and  grays  and  browns  predominant; 
and  tropical  warmth  and  brightness  seem  to  tone  up  the  colors 
by  some  secret  chemistry  of  the  sun.  It  is  not  so  much  that 
birds  choose  regions  that  correspond  to  them  in  tone,  as  that 
they  are  changed  to  harmonize  with  the  surroundings  they 
prefer  to  live  in.  The  object  of  safety  is  not  so  vividly  before 
the  bird  that  he  would  leave  his  favorite  food  because  his  coat 
did  not  match  the  scenery ;  but  natural  causes  work  upon  him 
against  his  will  to  secure  for  him  what  he  would  not  seek  for 
himself. 

The  result  here  is  safety.  The  principle  is,  —  Animals 
involuntarily  tend  to  acquire  a  color  that  accords  with  their  usual 
habitat  ;  or,  in  simpler  words,  they  become  like  the  color  of 
the  places  they  live  in. 

We  have  touched  the  secret  spring  of  a  great  truth  in  this 
principle,  and  now  that  the  door  is  open  before  us  we  have  no 
time  to  go  farther.  We  cannot  fully  appreciate  how  well  this 
principle  explains  many  difficulties  until  we  know  more; 
until  we  have  seen  how  the  gayest  bird  even  may  be  pro- 
tected by  his  brilliancy  and  the  plainest  favored  by  his  shad- 
ings;  how  certain  patterns  of  coloration  resemble  inanimate 
things,  and  how,  unless  a  bird  is  favored  by  its  color  or  by  its 
sense,  it  is  likely  to  have  a  short  life.  But  we  have  learned 
that  even  if  in  the  beginning  all  birds  had  been  of  one  color, 
they  could  not  always  have  remained  alike,  and  that  there  is 
safety  in  a  color  that  blends  with  the  surroundings. 


THE   THIRD   PROBLEM   OF   BIRD   LIFE. 

REPRODUCTION    AND    ITS    EFFECT    UPON    HABITS. 

THE  search  for  food  and  for  safety  has  resulted  in  making 
our  plain  birds  over  inside  and  outside.  They  are  transformed 
in  structure  and  in  color.  What  is  there  left  to  be  done  by 
this  third  problem  ? 

The  care  of  a  bird's  young  is  in  a  great  measure  a  repetition 
of  its  care  for  itself.  They  must  be  fed  and  protected.  Of 
course  it  makes  no  difference  whether  the  food  sought  is  to  be 
eaten  by  the  bird  itself  or  to  be  given  to  its  young  ones; 
whether  the  color-change  merely  protects  the  old  bird's  life 
or  her  own  and  her  nestlings'.  To  a  very  great  degree  the 
cares  and  labors  of  reproduction  must  produce  the  same  effects 
as  the  other  two  great  demands  of  the  bird's  life.  But  does  it 
do  nothing  else  ?  Is  an  instinct  as  resistless  as  that  of  hun- 
ger, requiring  the  bird's  closest  attention  several  months  in 
the  year,  to  have  no  effect  of  its  own  ?  No  other  of  the  bird's 
labors  is  so  absorbing,  so  exacting,  so  unceasing,  as  the  care  of 
its  young.  It  demands  the  bird's  greatest  energy,  it  taxes  to 
the  utmost  her  courage,  discretion,  and  forethought;  all  her 
mind  is  occupied  with  building  the  nest,  and  afterward  with 
feeding  and  defending  the  helpless  young.  Shall  this  leave 
no  mark  that  can  be  seen  ? 

Here  we  find  the  principal  effect  of  reproduction  —  what  we 
call  its  specific  effect,  because  it  seems  to  belong  to  this  prob- 
lem more  than  to  any  of  the  others.  The  specific  effect  of 
the  first  problem  was  a  change  of  structure ;  the  specific  effect 

146 


THE  THIRD  PROBLEM  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  147 

of  the  second  problem  was  a  change  of  color ;  the  specific  effect 
Of  reproduction  is  an  improvement  in  the  bird's  intelligence.  It 
is  not  that  the  other  problems  do  not  also  have  a  similar 
effect.  Many  a  shrewd  trick  has  the  bird  for  hiding  himself, 
and  many  an  inventive  turn  helps  him  in  getting  his  food; 
but  food  and  safety  can  usually  be  secured  without  any  great 
tax  upon  his  brain.  It  is  working  for  a  half-dozen  helpless, 
ignorant,  fearless,  stupid  little  nestlings  that  makes  the  bird 
shrewd  and  ready. 

We  seldom  see  birds  do  anything  remarkable  except  at 
their  nesting  season,  or  on  their  breeding  grounds.  We  can- 
not be  said  to  know  a  bird's  character  unless  we  have  met 
him  in  his  summer  home,  with  his  family.  There  he  usually 
has  a  peculiar  song,  and  often  a  different  dress  and  habits 
than  are  seen  elsewhere;  sometimes  he  appears  to  be  an 
entirely  different  bird.  Who  would  suspect  that  our  North- 
ern dandy,  the  bobolink,  with  his  harmless  rollicking  ways, 
gay  suit,  and  glorious  song,  was  the  same  bird  as  the  dull- 
colored,  songless,  mischievous  rice-bird  of  the  South?  You 
will  notice,  too,  that  the  stupid  birds  are  as  a  rule  the  least 
affectionate.  There  is  a  very  close  relation  between  love  and 

*  • 

intelligence.  Nothing  makes  a  man  or  a  bird  so  quick  to 
learn  and  to  invent  as  having  to  do  for  some  one  he  loves. 
We  must  admit  that  affection  is  one  of  the  greatest  possible 
spurs  to  improvement.  It  seems  to  have  done  more  than 
anything  else  to  develop  the  mind  and  character  of  the 
bird. 

We  cannot  study  changes  of  this  sort  as  we  can  color  and 
structure.  Those  can  be  touched,  seen,  judged  by  the  senses ; 
but  mental  changes  can  be  judged  only  by  their  effect  upon 
the  actions  of  the  bird.  We  see  them  in  the  habits  of  the 
bird.  Habits  are  ways  of  doing  things.  There  are  habits  of 


148  PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

perching,  habits  of  swimming,  habits  of  hunting,  and  habits 
of  eating,  but  the  most  remarkable  habits  of  the  bird  are 
those  in  some  way  connected  with  reproduction. 

What  would  have  been  the  effects  of  reproduction  on  us 
plain  birds  is  a  question  no  man  can  answer.  We  cannot 
reason  from  the  resemblances  between  birds  and  men  in 
answering  that,  for  we  do  not  know  that  the  minds  of  both 
are  asxnear  alike  as  their  bodies  are.  But  if  we  study  birds, 
we  shall  find  among  them  two  very  remarkable  habits  which 
no  other  creatures  have  so  universally  or  in  such  perfection. 
And  they  are  habits  which  students  tell  us  are  due  to  this 
instinct  of  reproduction.  Nearly  all  birds  make  nests,  and 
nearly  all  that  live  in  temperate  and  polar  regions  migrate, 
or  move  to  warmer  winter  homes,  returning  in  the  spring  to 
their  breeding  grounds.  Migration  and  nest-building  are  im- 
portant habits,  arising  from  the  instinct  of  reproduction. 

Structure  and  color  are  the  two  points  about  a  bird  ,that  we 
notice  first,  but  his  habits  are  just  as  interesting,  and  have  a 
meaning.  They  tell  us  about  the  bird's  intellect  and  char- 
acter, and  by  studying  them,  we  may  know  how  well  educated 
the  bird  is.  Are  you  disappointed  that  the  other  problems 
produced  such  great  results,  while  "this  seems  to  give  us  so 
little  change  ?  When  we  study  migration  and  the  other 
changes  of  habits,  we  shall  find  them  not  less  remarkable 
than  the  thousand  shapes  and  myriad  colorings  of  the  bird. 


PROTECTION    BY   COLOR. 

THE  problem  of  safety,  as  we  learned  some  time  ago,  put  a 
premium  upon  a  bird  whose  color  helped  him  to  pass  unob- 
served. It  was  a  very  pretty  theory,  but  we  are  to  see  how  it 
works  in  practice.  When  we  think  of  the  red  and  blue  and 
yellow  birds  we  know,  it  seems  hard  to  realize  that  they  are 
included  in  any  such  design;  when  we  think  of  the  odd- 
colored  ornaments  that  birds  wear,  bands,  crescents,  stripes, 
and  patches,  often  of  the  most  brilliant  hues,  we  fail  to  under- 
stand why  such  markings  are  not  a  sure  clew  to  discovery ; 
when  we  recollect  how  unlike  the  different  sexes  of  the  same 
bird  often  are,  and  how  frequently  young  birds  are  very  dis- 
similar to  their  parents  both  in  colors  and  markings,  we  must 
think  that  it  is  a  poor  law  that  does  not  apply  to  all  the  birds 
of  one  species,  but  explains  the  plumage  of  one  age  or  sex,  and 
leaves  the  others  still  unaccounted  for. 

We  cannot  go  into  all  the  details  of  this  subject,  —  even 
men  of  science  are  agreed  to  dispute  about  them,  —  but  we  can 
at  least  notice  among  the  birds  of  our  acquaintance  instances 
where  their  color  helps  to  conceal  them  from  our  eyes.  If  all 
our  sparrows,  for  example,  had  blue  or  red  backs,  how  much 
more  readily  we  should  discover  them ;  for  sparrows  have  a 
way  of  staying  near  the  ground,  either  directly  upon  it,  or  in 
low  bushes,  or  about  fences,  where  a  bright-colored  back  and 
breast  would  serve  to  distinguish  them  instantly.  Now  most 
of  our  common  sparrows,  we  find,  are  dull-colored  little  birds 
varied  with  stripes  about  the  back,  breast,  and  head  that  seem 

149 


150  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

to  blend  with  the  colors  of  the  earth  and  with  the  grass  stems 
they  live  among. 

But  the  sparrows  have  cousins,  like  the  grosbeaks,  cardi- 
nals, and  buntings,  that  are  among  our  gayest  birds,  brill- 
iant in  red,  blue,  yellow,  and  striking  combinations.  Are 
these  ground-birds  ?  Not  at  all,  they  swing  and  sing  among 
the  tree-tops  where  there  are  green  leaves  about  them  and 
blue  sky  for  a  background,  and  the  keen  edge  of  their  own 
color  is,  as  it  were,  taken  off.  I  have  often  thought,  seeing  an 
indigo  bird  swinging  on  the  top  of  a  balsam  fir,  that  he  was 
just  the  proper  weather-vane  for  such  a  tree,  his  rich  blue  coat 
with  peacocky  hints  of  green  seeming  to  stand  exactly  between 
.the  clear  blue  of  the  sky  and  blue  green  of  the  fir  tree.  And 
in  the  case  of  so  brilliant  a  bird  as  the  male  scarlet  tanager,  the 
brightest  color  possible,  unrelieved  by  any  shading,  there  seems 
to  be  an  advantage  taken  of  the  law  of  complemental  colors 
which  makes  you  see  scarlet  after  gazing  too  steadily  at  green, 
or  green  by  looking  too  intently  upon  scarlet.  He  cannot  be 
hidden,  and  yet  you  do  not  see  him  among  the  leaves  much 
more  quickly  than  you  would  a  duller-colored  bird. 

Another  thing  that  has  struck  me  is  that  the  brightest- 
colored  birds  are  found  most  often  near  civilization.  You  do 
not  find  the  orioles  and  grosbeaks  and  tanagers  so  abundant 
away  from  farms  and  gardens.  Why  this  is  so  I  cannot  tell 
you  now ;  all  we  wish  to  infer  from  it  is  that  their  colors  evi- 
dently do  not  expose  them  to  so  much  danger  that  they  avoid 
men ;  in  some  way  they  either  blend  with  their  surroundings 
or  are  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  in  spite  of  their  brilliant 
plumage.  They  are  the  birds  that  most  of  all  plunge  into  the 
midst  of  blossoms  and  frolic  in  the  snowy  drifts  of  apple  and 
cherry  blooms. 

Another  family  of  our  gayest  birds,  the  warblers,  are  quite 


PROTECTION  BY  COLOR.  151 

commonly  tricked  out  with  yellow  and  green.  In  watching 
them,  I  have  sometimes  noticed  how  much  yellow  there  is  in 
the  green  of  foliage,  how  they  accord  with  leaves  just  opening 
or  with  leaves  just  fading.  This  is  scarcely  color  protection, 
but  it  is  color  harmony,  which  is  much  the  same  thing. 

The  dull-mottled  coloring  of  the  owls,  we  may  suppose,  has 
less  to  do  with  their  hunting  by  night  than  with  their  lying 
still  by  day,  when  in  shape  and  color  they  often  much  resemble 
dead  and  broken  branches  such  as  abound  in  a  forest.  An  owl 
alighting  on  the  top  of  a  dead  stub  will  seem  to  be  a  part  of  it, 
he  sits  so  stiff  and  shapeless,  and  looks  so  square-headed. 
Nearly  all  the  sandpipers,  snipe,  and  other  shore-birds  are 
streaked  or  dotted  upon  the  back  with  brown  and  buffy  like 
the  light  grass  stems  and  the  dark  background  behind  them,  a 
coloring  which  often  protects  the  sandpiper,  especially  the 
mother  bird  upon  the  nest,  from  observation.  But  the  plovers, 
which  are  nearly  related  to  the  sandpipers,  have  plain-colored 
backs,  so  that  they  conie  under  a  different  protective  device. 
They  are  less  spotted  than  the  sandpipers,  and  often  have  dark 
bands,  bars,  or  marks  about  the  breast  and  head  that  may 
help  to  efface  the.  outline. 

When  you  have  opportunity,  notice  how  much  the  backs  of 
nighthawks  and  whippoorwills  look  like  some  of  the  dark- 
spotted,  night-flying  moths  that  lie  still  by  day  under  brown 
leaves  and  upon  tree  trunks.  In  the  same  way,  these  birds 
that  hunt  during  the  hours  of  dark  and  twilight,  and  crouch 
upon  the  ground  or  upon  the  branch  of  a  tree  during  the  day, 
closely  resemble  the  surface  they  alight  on.  The  back  of  the 
woodcock  is  quite  similarly  mottled.  The  back  and  sides  of 
grouse  and  quail  are  also  protectively  colored. 

The  outline  of  a  bird  is  often  more  readily  recognized  than 
a  spot  of  color  would  be ;  we  see  the  familiar  line,  and  infer 


152  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

that  it  belongs  to  a  bird,  therefore  many  of  the  bird's  orna- 
ments are  a  protection  against  discovery.  "This  makes,  for 
instance,  the  mallard's  dark  green  head  tend  to  detach  itself 
from  his  body  and  to  join  the  dark  green  of  the  shady  ledge, 
or  the  ruby  of  the  humming-bird  to  desert  him  and  to  appear 
to  belong  to  the  glistening  flower  he  is  searching."  In  this 
way,  bright  or  strongly  contrasting  crown  patches,  throat 
patches,  necklaces,  and  collars  may  be  seen  to  have  a  use  other 
than  mere  ornament,  and  crests  often  help  to  conceal  birds  by 
disguising  familiar  outlines.  The  cedar  bird  and  the  ruffed 
grouse  are  experts  in  evading  notice  by  throwing  themselves 
into  strange  attitudes  and  erecting  their  crests.  Curves  are 
what  betray  the  bird;  broken  outlines  or  stiff  lines  conceal 
him.  Therefore  the  ruffed  grouse,  when  in  a  tree,  lays  all  his 
feathers  flat,  stands  stiffly  at  his  greatest  height,  with  his  neck 
stretched  as  far  as  he  can  reach  or  crooked  sharply  at  an  angle. 
I  have  stood  within  two  rods  of  a  ruffed  grouse,  in  fair  sight, 
and  that  not  many  years  since,  and  have  decided  that  he  was 
a  very  strange  branch  on  a  willow  bush,  before  it  flashed 
upon  me  what  I  was  looking  at. 

The  most  beautiful  arrangement  for  protective  color  is  also 
the  commonest,  and  though  nearly  every  bird  and  animal  prof- 
its by  it,  no  man  ever  discovered  it  until  a  few  years  ago.  It  is 
called  the  "  law  of  gradation."  Nearly  every  bird,  you  know, 
is  lighter  on  the  breast  than  on  the  back,  and  it  is  almost  a  rule 
that  birds  not  uniformly  colored,  like  the  crow  and  the  black- 
birds, shall  be  white  or  gray  or  buffy  along  the  belly  and  beneath 
the  tail,  even  if  they  have  dark  breasts  and  throats.  Why  this 
is  so,  is  as  simple  as  it  is  interesting. 

Every  bird,  standing  in  his  usual  positions,  cuts  off  a  portion 
of  the  light  that  falls  from  above  and  so  casts  a  shadow  on 
his  own  breast  and  under  surface.  We  do  not  see  the  shadow, 


PROTECTION  BY  COLOR.  153 

we  do  not  know  of  its  existence,  but  it  is  there.  If  the  bird's 
breast  were  the  same  color  as  his  back,  the  shadow,  mak- 
ing it  appear  darker  than  it  is  (that  is,  darker  than  the  back), 
would  bring  out  the  line  of  the  breast  sharply  against  the 
background.  The  shadow  on  a  light  breast  cancels  the  effect 
of  light  upon  a  dark  back  and  causes  the  outline  to  blend  with 
the  'background. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  the  experiment  by  which 
Mr.  Abbott  H.  Thayer,  the  artist  who  painted  the  "  Madonna 
Enthroned  "  and  other  well-known  pictures,  proved  his  discovery 
of  this  "  law  of  gradation  "  to  a  large  number  of  scientists.  Any 
child  can  perform  the  experiment  with  very  little  trouble.  We 
quote  from  the  original  report  of  the  experiment :  "  Mr.  Thayer 
placed  three  sweet  potatoes,  or  objects  of  corresponding  shape 
and  size,  horizontally  on  a  wire  a  few  inches  above  the  ground. 
They  were  covered  with  some  sticky  material,  and  dry  earth 
from  the  road  on  which  they  stood  was  sprinkled  over  them  so 
that  they  would  be  of  the  same  color  as  the  background.  The 
two  end  ones  were  then  painted  white  on  the  under  side,  and 
the  white  color  was  shaded  up  and  gradually  mixed  with  the 
brown  of  the  sides.  When  viewed  from  a  little  distance  these 
two  end  ones,  which  were  white  below,  disappeared  from  sight, 
while  the  middle  one  stood  out  in  strong  relief  and  appeared 
much  darker  than  it  really  was.  Mr.  Thayer  explained  that 
terrestrial  birds  and  mammals  which  are  protectingly  colored 
have  the  under  parts  white  or  very  light  in  color,  and  that  the 
color  of  the  under  parts  usually  shades  gradually  into  that  of 
the  upper  parts.  This  is  essential  in  order  to  counteract  the 
effect  of  the  shadow,  which  otherwise,  as  shown  by  the  middle 
potato,  makes  the  object  abnormally  conspicuous  and  causes  it 
to  appear  much  darker  than  it  really  is.  Some  of  the  wit- 
nesses could  liardly  believe  that  the  striking  difference  in  the 


154  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

visibility  of  the  three  potatoes  was  entirely  due  to  the  coloring 
of  the  under  side,  and  Mr.  Thayer  was  asked  to  color  the  middle 
one  like  the  two  others  in  order  that  the  effect  might  be 
observed.  Mr.  Thayer  complied  with  the  request,  painting 
the  under  side  of  the  middle  potato  white,  and  shading  the 
white  up  into  the  sides  as  in  the  case  of  the  others.  The  effect 
was  almost  magical.  The  middle  potato  at  once  disappeared 
from  view.  A  similar  experiment  was  tried  on  the  lawn.  Two 
potatoes  were  painted  green  to  resemble  the  green  of  the  grass 
above  which  they  were  suspended.  One  was  painted  white  on 
the  under  side  and  at  once  became  invisible  when  viewed  from 
a  little  distance,  while  the  other  showed  plainly  and  seemed 
very  dark,  the  shadow,  superadded  to  the  green  of  the  under 
side,  making  it  remarkably  conspicuous.  The  experiments 
were  an  overwhelming  success." 

Try  this  experiment  yourself  and  then  notice  how  almost 
invariable  is  this  law  of  gradation  by  which  Nature  helps  the 
birds  and  beasts  to  escape  detection,  however  gayly  they  are 
colored. 


ZOOGEOGRAPHY. 

WHEN  you  look  in  your  geographies  and  see  the  continents 
all  marked  out  into  countries  and  states,  you  forget  that  any* 
thing  except  men  inhabits  those  lands.  How  would  you  like 
to  see  a  bird  geography  of  those  regions  ?  Or  what  would  you 
say  to  an  animal  or  a  plant  geography,  showing  where  each 
kind  of  animal  and  plant  was  to  be  found  ?  There  are  such 
maps,  and  if  you  were  to  see  a  book  full  of  them,  with  all  sorts 
of  plants  and  insects  and  birds  and  mammals  claiming  the 
country  you'  are  living  in,  you  would  feel  as  if  you  had  been 
crowded  out  yourself.  Yet  as  a  matter  of  fact  we  all  live  on 
the  same  territory  very  comfortably.  Did  you  ever  have  a 
dish  full  of  apples  and  then  fill  the  spaces  between  the 
apples  with  hazel  nuts,  and  shake  rice  kernels  down  the 
crevices  between  the  nuts  and  the  apples,  and  grains  of 
sugar  through  the  whole  ?  There  were  as  many  apples  in 
the  dish  as  if  there  had  been  no  nuts,  rice,  or  sugar,  were 
there  not  ?  These  smaller  articles  merely  filled  in  the  waste 
room.  So  it  is  with  the  animals  on  the  globe.  Innumerable 
creatures  may  live  on  the  same  ground  if  they  do  not  get  in  each 
other's  way,  and  each  one  can  and  does  have  a  geography  all 
its  own  without  interfering  with  the  states  and  territories  laid 
out  by  men.  The  geography  of  any  kind  of  plant  or  animal  is 
called  its  distribution,  and  it  tells  us  where  that  species  lives. 

If  we  had  the  maps  of  the  distribution  of  all  kinds  of  plants 
and  animals,  each  with  its  own  home  marked  in  a  bright  color, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  map  blank,  we  should  be  surprised  to 
see  that  the  maps  could  be  sorted  out  into  a  few  patterns  so 

155 


156  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

near  alike  as  to  be  very  remarkable.  For  instance,  one  kind 
of  bird  would  be  found  in  northern  Maine  and  New  Hampshire, 
in  the  Adirondack  Mountains,  in  the  Catskills  and  down  along 
the  Alleghany  chain  even  as  far  south  as  the  Carolinas,  but 
nowhere  else  in  the  United  States  except  perhaps  in  northern 
Michigan  and  Minnesota.  Then  another  bird,  entirely  unlike 
the  first,  would  be  found  in  the  same  places  and  in  no  others. 
Then  a  third  and  a  fourth  and  many  more,  until  it  dawned 
upon  you  that  you  had  discovered  a  bird  state.  Then  you  would 
find  other  birds  visiting  southern  Florida,  but  never  getting 
north  of  a  line  drawn  from  Tampa  Bay  to  Cape  Malabar ;  and 
others  still  that  were  found  only  in  a  little  point  of  land  at  the 
very  southern  part  of  Texas ;  some  that  lived  on  the  Great 
Plains  only,  and  some  that  were  found  in  the  Great  Basin, 
and  others  that  followed  mountain  ranges,  and  though  they 
travelled  south  the  whole  width  of  the  United  States,  never 
strayed  more  than  a  few  miles  east  or  west.  These  limits 
would  mark  the  bounds  of  other  bird  states,  which  we  could 
increase  until  the  whole  continent  was  divided  among  them. 

The  curious  point  would  be  the  fantastic  shape  of  these 
bird  states.  Why  should  Arctic  birds  be  found  along  a  nar- 
row strip  leading  far  down  into  Mexico  ?  Why  should  birds 
of  the  warm  Mississippi  Valley  push  up  into  the  cold  North 
as  far  as  the  Saskatchewan  and  Athabaska  rivers  ?  Why 
should  the  different  kinds  all  agree  to  make  the  same  skips 
and  jumps  ? 

The  men  who  study  the  geography  of  animals  and  draw 
maps  of  their  states  undertake  to  explain  these  puzzles. 
They  say  that  there  is  a  reason  for  the  shape  of  these  bird 
and  animal  states,  and  they  call  the  whole  study  zoogeography, 
or  the  geography  of  animals ;  or,  when  speaking  of  a  single 
species  or  of  a  few  species,  they,  talk  of  their  distribution. 


DISTRIBUTION. 

THERE  are  two  questions  to  be  answered  in  studying  the 
distribution  of  plants  and  animals :  What  in  the  past  caused 
them  to  be  so  scattered,  and  what  in  the  present  holds  them 
where  they  are  ? 

The  first  could  not  be  determined  without  the  help  of 
the  geologist,  but  the  second  flows  naturally  out  of  what  we 
have  been  studying. 

Birds  are  like  people.  Some  need  and  enjoy  much  greater 
heat  than  most  others,  and  some  few  cannot  live  in  regions  even 
moderately  warm,  but  all  of  them  desire  and  seek  a  place  just 
warm  enough  for  their  own  constitutions.  Furthermore,  no 
bird,  however  hardy  he  may  be,  can  exist  where  his  food  will 
be  destroyed  by  cold  or  will  be  buried  under  snow  and  ice  for 
many  months  in  the  year.  So  choice  and  necessity,  acting 
together,  drive  the  birds  back  and  forth  as  the  cold  and  the 
food  supply  increase  and  diminish.  For  many  months  in 
the  year  the  bird  is  homeless,  but  as  it  comes  summer  he 
always  seeks  some  spot  that  promises  just  the  right  degree 
of  warmth  and  food  enough  for  himself  and  family.  The 
breeding  grounds  are  always  reckoned  as  the  home  of  the 
bird,  and  maps  showing  distribution  are  supposed  to  show 
us  where  the  birds  are  found  in  the  height  of  summer. 

Why  is  it  then  that  birds  whose  natural  home  is  in  the 
North  leave  behind  them  such  lagging  rear  columns  in  lands 
of  sunshine  and  almost  tropical  heat?  Why  are  the  three- 
toed  woodpeckers,  which  are  found  elsewhere  only  in  the 
most  northern  of  the  Northern  states,  found  also  in  a  narrow, 

157 


158  PROBLEMS   OF  BTRD  LIFE. 

southward  streamer  that  straggles  south  almost  to  Mexico  ? 
Why  is  the  red-breasted  nuthatch  never  seen  in  summer  south 
of  the  northern  tier  of  states  except  along  a  narrow  line  in  the 
East  and  another  in  the  West  reaching  hundred  of  miles  south 
of  his  natural  home  ?  In  answering  these  questions  we  shall 
show  that  distribution  is  principally  a  matter  of  temperature, 
or  of  temperature  and  moisture,  which  is  climate. 

Did  you  ever  notice  in  your  geographies  (but  not  all  geog- 
raphies have  them)  little,  fine,  brown  lines  that  wave  about 
over  the  map  like  a  filmy  cobweb,  now  looping  downward, 
now  hooping  up,  but  in  general  travelling  east  and  west? 
They  are  called  isothermal  lines,  —  that  is,  lines  of  equal  heat, 
—  because  all  the  places  through  which  they  pass  have  the 
same  average  temperature.  There  are  also  isotherms  for 
every  month  in  the  year  passing  through  all  the  places  that 
have  the  same  heat  in  summer  and  the  same  degree  of  cold  in 
winter,  but  these  are  not  put  down  on  our  maps. 

In  a  general  way,  we  were  aware  that  it  is  warm  in  the 
South,  and  that  it  grows  colder  as  we  go  north,  but  perhaps 
it  is  new  to  us  that  the  change  is  not  uniform  ;  in  other  words, 
that  the  isotherms  do  not  run  straight  across  the  map  parallel 
with  the  degrees  of  latitude.  It  is  much  more  interesting  as 
it  is.  The  isothermal  lines  now  tell  us  considerable  about 
the  country  they  cross,  so  that  if  all  the  lakes,  rivers,  and 
mountains  were  removed  from  the  map  and  only  these  lines  of 
average  temperature  left,  we  still  might  know  something  of 
the  surface  of  the  country,  while  a  map  of  the  summer  iso- 
therms would  tell  us  a  great  deal. 

When  an  isotherm  takes  a  northward  bend,  we  know  that 
the  heat  is  greater  inside  the  loop  than  it  is  outside  it. 
Usually  we  find  within  the  loop  either  a  flat  plain  that  re- 
flects the  heat,  or  a  lower  level  of  land  along  some  river 


DISTRIBUTION.  159 

valley.  Isotherms  travel  around  the  upper  edge  of  such 
places.  But  they  travel  around  the  lower  edge  of  a  mountain 
chain.  A  decided  bend  to  the  southward,  therefore,  means 
that  a  chain  of  mountains  bars  the  line  of  equal  heat,  which 
is  deflected,  or  turned  out  of  its  course,  by  the  obstruction. 
Near  the  seacoast  the  isotherm  may  turn  either  up  or  down. 
A  warm  ocean  current  with  warm,  moist  winds  will  turn  the 
isotherm  upward, as  on  the  Pacific  coast;  the  outswinging  of 
the  Gulf  Stream  from  the  Gulf  of  Maine  turns  the  isotherm 
downward  and  gives  the  cool  summers  of  the  New  England 
coast.  The  temperature  line  may  be  thought  of  as  like  a  tiny 
cobweb  attached  at  both  ends  and  driven  up  and  down  by 
Warm  winds  or  cold,  or  turned  out  of  its  course  by  obstructions 
that  would  cause  a  change  of  temperature.  Thus  it  may  be 
that  a  place  far  to  the  north  and  one  far  to  the  south  may 
have  the  same  climate,  one  isotherm  passing  through  both. 
But  it  is  not  only  winds,  currents,  and  distance  north 
that  make  temperature.  There  must  be  some  reason  why  a 
mountain  chain  will  deflect  the  isotherm.  Why  is  it?  We 
know  very  well  that  the  top  of  a  mountain  is  cooler  than  the 
valleys  about  it,  not  only  because  it  feels  every  breeze,  but 
because  it  is  higher.  We  can  see  that  it  is  cooler  than  the 
country  round  about,  for  the  snow  lies  upon  its  top  long 
after  it  has  disappeared  from  the  valleys,  and  the  higher 
the  mountain  the  longer  the  snow  lingers.  Thus  we  infer 
that  temperature  decreases  with  elevation.  Places  of  the  same 
latitude  and  having  the  same  level  above  the  sea,  if  there 
were  no  disturbing  influences,  would  have  the  same  climate. 
There  would  be  one  climate  at  sea-level,  another  at  two 
thousand  feet  above,  another  at  five  thousand,  and  so  on, 
every  few  hundred  feet  showing  more  or  less  difference  in 
climate.  In  a  single  lone  and  lofty  mountain  we  should  find 


160  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

zones  or  belts  around  it  all  the  way  up  to  the  top,  each 
inhabited  by  slightly  different  trees,  insects,  birds,  and  mam- 
mals, until  we  reached  the  summit  of  perpetual  ice,  barren 
of  life  and  vegetation. 

We  may  regard  the  earth  itself  as  such  a  mountain,  its 
ice-capped  pole  the  summit,  surrounded  by  zone  below  zone 
of  vegetation  each  more  luxuriant  than  the  one  above  it 
until  we  reach  the  equator,  or  base  of  our  world  mountain. 
There  is  a  curious  similarity  between  the  belts  on  a  moun- 
tain and  the  zones  of  the  earth.  Very  often  on  the  hills 
and  mountains  of  New  England  I  have  picked  the  spicy 
mountain  cranberry,  the  goosefoot  potentilla  with  its  starry 
flowers,  or  the  scrubby  little  Corema,  and  have  recognized  the 
land  I  was  on  as  like  the  coast  of  Labrador;  it  was  as  if 
I  had  travelled  north  five  hundred  miles  instead  of  climbing 
up  half  a  mile.  Still  more  remarkable  is  the  case  of  higher 
mountains  farther  to  the  south.  On  San  Francisco  Mountain 
in  Arizona,  which  rises  12,800  feet  above  the  sea,  have  been 
found  Arctic  plants  identical  with  those  of  the  extreme  North.1 
Nine  species  found  on  this  mountain  have  proved  to  be  pre- 
cisely similar  to  those  brought  by  General  Greely  from  Lady 
Franklin  Bay,  latitude  eighty-two  degrees  north.  By  climb- 
ing a  mountain  two  miles  and  a  half  in  height,  we  would  be 
able  to  see  plants  growing  for  which  we  must  go  more  than 
three  thousand  miles  if  we  journeyed  due  north.  Thus  the 
tops  of  high  mountains  give  us  an  arctic  climate. 

Now  we  see  why  it  is  that  northern  birds  are  sometimes 
found-  far  to  the  south.  They  follow  down  the  mountain 
peaks  and  find  at  different  elevations  the  zone  which  gives 
them  the  climate  they  would  naturally  seek  in  the  north. 
Or  if  they  have  wintered  south  and  would  return  in  summer 
1  Davis,  Elementary  Meteorology,  p.  343. 


D  IS  TRIB  UTION.  161 

to  a  cooler  climate,  instead  of  travelling  hundreds  of  miles 
north,  they  go  up  into  the  mountains  a  mile  or  two  and  find 
just  the  degree  of  coolness  they  desire.  So  the  three-toed 
woodpecker  and  the  arctic  ptarmigan,  the  leucostictes  and  the 
snow  buntings,  drift  southward  along  the  lines  of  lofty  peaks 
in  the  Western  ranges,  and  in  the  East  the  red-breasted  nut- 
hatch, the  chickadee,  and  the  junco  follow  down  the  Appa- 
lachian system,  finding  a  climate  that  is  in  most  respects 
the  same  as  their  Canadian  home. 

In  the  northward  extension  of  southern  birds,  we  find  that 
they  follow  plains  and  river  valleys.  The  flat,  barren  plains 
reflect  the  heat,  and  the  winds  across  them  are  often  burning 
hot,  withering  all  vegetation  like  a  fire.  Such  winds  and 
such  heat  bear  the  lines  of  summer  temperature  far  to  the 
north,  even  to  the  plains  of  the  Saskatchewan  and  the  interior 
of  British  America.  Here  the  birds  find  a  summer  as  hot  as 
that  upon  the  seacoast  fifteen  or  twenty  degrees  farther  south. 
It  does  not  matter  that  in  winter  these  same  plains  are  many 
times  colder  than  the  seacoast,  for  the  bird's  distribution  is 
influenced  by  the  summer  climate. 

The  map  of  faunal  provinces  and  subprovinces  shows  us 
very  nearly  the  course  of  the  summer  isotherms  marking 
each  ten  or  fifteen  degrees  difference  in  average  heat.  The 
north  and  south  division  through  the  centre  of  the  map  is, 
however,  not  a  temperature  division,  but  it  cuts  off  the  dry 
western  half  from  the  moist  eastern  half  of  the  country  —  the 
green  and  luxuriant  prairies  and  woodlands  from  the  parched 
and  scanty  herbage  of  the  plains.  And,  of  course,  with  the 
change  in  amount  of  rainfall  and  the  consequent  change 
in  vegetation,  follow  changes  in  the  insect  life  and  in  the 
birds  that  live  upon  insects  and  berries.  There  is  often  a 
very  close  connection  between  birds  'and  certain  plants  or 


162  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD   LIFE. 

trees.  Who  would  expect  to  find  a  sage  cock  away  from 
sage  brush  ?  or  a  spruce  partridge  (Canada  grouse)  outside  of 
the  spruce  forests  ?  It  may  not  be  chance  alone  that  makes 
the  pine  warbler  haunt  the  pitch-pine  country,  and  the  blue 
yellow-backed  warbler  always  seek  the  neighborhood  of  the 
hanging  usnea,  or  swamp-moss.  All  these  are  facts  of  distri- 
bution, and  it  is  part  of  the  good  naturalist's  work  to  observe 
whether  certain  birds  and  plants  always  are  found  together. 

The  study  of  distribution  needs  long  training  and  wide 
observation  to  be  of  any  great  worth,  but  a  beginner  may  do 
several  things  that  will  have  a  scientific  value.  One  of  the 
simplest  is  to  make  a  list  of  all  the  birds  found  within  certain 
limits;  another  is  to  notice  carefully  the  kind  of  locations 
preferred  by  each  bird,  whether  open  hard-wood,  soft-wood, 
thickets,  brook-sides,  meadows,  and  the  like ;  while  a  third  is 
to  explore  carefully  some  hill  or  mountain  near  home,  with 
the  aid  of  a  map,  marking  every  hundred  feet  in  elevation, 
and  to  note  carefully  the  elevations  at  which  every  kind  of  bird 
and  flower  is  seen,  together  with  the  slope  of  the  hill,  north, 
east,  south,  or  west,  on  which  they  are  seen.  By  such  explora- 
tions, year  after  year,  over  any  mountain,  noting  its  zones  and 
the  trees,  plants,  birds,  and  insects,  the  exposure  to  sun,  the 
amount  of  rain  received,  the  character  of  the  rock  beneath,  and 
always  the  elevation,  a  patient  observer  could  accomplish 
much.  But  studies  of  this  kind  require  more  time  and  pains- 
taking observation  than  most  amateur  naturalists  are  able  to 
spend. 


MIGRATION. 

BESIDES  this  regular  distribution  in  summer  over  certain 
well-marked  areas,  most  birds  have  another  winter  home  far- 
ther south,  and  in  going  from  one  to  the  other  they  make 
long  nights  called  migrations,  or  movings.  The  causes  of  this 
remarkable  custom  are  so  remote  that,  without  the  aid  of  the 
geologist,  we  can  hardly  understand  how  the  habit  was  ac- 
quired, nor  why,  when  once  the  birds  are  driven  south  by 
cold,  they  do  not  stay  there.  But  simpler  questions  than 
these,  questions  which  might  not  seem  too  hard  for  ourselves 
to  answer,  as,  in  what  manner  they  travel  these  great  distances ; 
how  they  find  their  way  back  to  the  same  place,  to  the  same 
porch  or  bush,  after  a  thousand  miles  of  wanderings;  why 
we  so  seldom  see  them  going,  but  only  wake  up  to  find  them 
come  or  gone  —  these  apparently  easy  questions  have,  until 
recently,  been  a  standing  puzzle  to  the  world.  Many  foolish 
guesses  have  been  made,  wide  of  the  mark,  but  at  last,  by 
patient  study,  the  facts  have  been  discovered;  and  now  all 
seems  so  simple,  so  much  like  what  we  would  do  ourselves, 
that  we  wonder  at  our  not  knowing  it  years  ago. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  settled  that  most  of  the  smaller 
birds  flew  by  night,  which  sufficiently  explained  why  we 
neither  saw  them  come,  nor  saw  them  leave.  One  moonlight 
night  in  September,  a  number  of  years  ago,  I  was  awakened 
from  a  very  bad  dream  of  burglars  by  hearing  in  my  room  a 
noise  that  could  not  be  explained  as  cat,  rat,  bat,  or  mouse. 
The  windows  were  open,  and  there  was  out  of  doors  the  dying 
glimmer  of  a  setting  moon,  but  the  room  was  dark;  nothing 

163 


164  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

could  be  seen,  yet  the  noise  continued.  Lighting  the  gas,  I 
found  a  poor  little  bird  bumping  his  head  against  the  ceiling,  in 
frantic  efforts  to  escape.  He  was  easily  caught,  and  proved  to 
be  a  young  yellow-rumped  warbler,  much  frightened,  but  unhurt 
except  from  a  temporary  baldness  where  he  had  rubbed  his 
head  against  the  ceiling.  Evidently  he  had  been  flying  by 
moonlight,  and  the  chances  were  that  he  was  not  going  alone 
on  this  unknown  journey,  but  that  all  his  tribe  were  on  their 
fall  migration.  But  I  could  not  see  the  passing  armies,  and 
when  I  looked  out  in  the  morning  the  little  warblers  flitting 
about  in  the  shrubbery  were  apparently  the  same  that  had  been 
there  for  days. 

It  is  not  often  that  one  really  has  an  opportunity  to  see  the 
flood  sweep  past ;  and,  because  it  is,  perhaps,  the  most  vivid 
story  ever  written  of  the  way  a  great  army  of  birds  makes 
its  marches,  I  am  going  to  quote  to  you  the  account  written 
by  Mr.  William  Brewster  of  his  studies  of  the  migration  of 
birds  at  Point  Lepreaux  lighthouse,  near  the  Bay  of  Fundy. 
Of  the  experience  of  one  stormy  night  he  gives  the  following 
description :  — 

"  A  clear,  cool  day ;  the  evening  perfectly  clear  up  to  ten 
o'clock,  when  a  heavy  curtain  of  clouds  rolled  overhead  from 
the  northwest,  and  it  became  very  dark.  An  hour  later  dense 
fog  set  in,  and  at  midnight  it  began  to  rain,  heavy  showers 
succeeding  one  another  at  frequent  intervals.  Wind  south; 
puffy,  at  times  strong. 

"As  soon  as  the  sky  became  overcast  small  birds  began  to 
come  about  the  light.  Their  numbers  increased  steadily  from 
ten  to  eleven  o'clock,  but  during  this  time  the  majority  kept 
at  a  safe  distance,  and  only  two  or  three,  struck.  With  the 
advent  of  the  fog  they  multiplied  tenfold  in  the  course  of  a 
few  minutes.  For  the  next  hour  from  fifty  to  one  hundred 


MIGRATION.  165 

were  constantly  in  sight,  and  from  one  to  eight  or  ten  dashing 
at  the  lantern.  ...  I  remained  on  the  lighthouse  from  ten 
o'clock  until  two  the  next  morning.  During  this  time  fully 
two  hundred  birds  came  against  the  lantern.  Of  these  at  least 
fifty  were  killed  or  disabled,  and  I  caught  and  examined  prob- 
ably fifty  more  which  were  too  wet  or  exhausted  to  fly  after 
dropping  on  the  platform. 

"  At  the  height  of  the  melee  the  scene  was  interesting  and 
impressive  beyond  almost  anything  that  I  ever  witnessed. 
Above,  the  inky  black  sky  ;  on  all  sides,  dense  wreaths  of 
fog  scudding  swiftly  past  and  completely  enveloping  the  sea 
which  moaned  dismally  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs  below ;  about 
the  top  of  the  tower,  a  belt  of  light  projected  some  thirty  yards 
into  the  mist  by  the  powerful  reflectors;  and  in  this  belt 
swarms  of  birds,  circling,  floating,  soaring,  now  advancing, 
next  retreating,  but  never  quite  able,  as  it  seemed,  to  throw 
off  the  spell  of  the  fatal  lantern.  Their  rapidly  vibrating 
wings  made  a  haze  about  their  forms  which  in  the  strong  light 
looked  semitransparent.  At  a  distance  all  appeared  of  a  pale, 
silvery-gray  color,  nearer,  of  a  rich  yellow.  They  reminded  me 
by  turns  of  meteors,  gigantic  moths,  swallows  with  sunlight 
streaming  through  their  wings.  I  could  not  watch  them  for 
any  length  of  time  without  becoming  dizzy  and  bewildered. 

"  When  the  wind  blew  strongly,  they  circled  around  to  lee- 
ward, breasting  it  in  a  dense  throng,  which  drifted  backward 
and  forward,  up  and  down,  like  a  swarm  of  gnats  dancing  in 
the  sunshine.  Dozens  were  continually  leaving  this  throng 
and  skimming  toward  the  lantern.  As  they  approached  they 
invariably  soared  upward,  and  those  which  started  on  a  level 
with  the  platform  usually  passed  above  the  roof.  Others 
sheered  off  at  the  last  moment,  and  shot  by  with  arrowlike 
swiftness,  while  more  rarely  one  would  stop  abruptly  and, 


166  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

poising  a  few  feet  from  the  glass,  inspect  the  lighted  space 
within.  Often  for  a  minute  or  more  not  a  bird  would  strike. 
Then,  as  if  seized  by  a  panic,  they  would  come  against  the 
glass  so  rapidly,  and  in  such  numbers,  that  the  sound  of  their 
blows  resembled  the  pattering  of  hail.  Many  struck  the  tin 
roof  above  the  light,  others  the  iron  railing  which  enclosed  the 
platform,  while  still  others  pelted  me  on  the  back,  arms,  and 
legs,  and  one  actually  became  hopelessly  entangled  in  my 
beard.  At  times  it  fairly  rained  birds,  and  the  platform,  wet 
and  shining,  was  strewn  with  the  dead  and  dying." 

Few  of  us  will  ever  see  the  like  of  this,  and  yet,  watching 
the  play  of  insects  about  an  electric  light,  do  we  not  see 
something  very  similar,  so  nearly  the  same  that  the  question 
at  once  rises,  Why  are  not  birds  killed  by  electric  lights  as  well 
as  by  lighthouses  ?  To  a  small  extent  they  undoubtedly  are 
killed  by  striking  electric  lights,  especially  the  tall  clustered 
lights  used  in  some  cities;  but  there  are  two  good  reasons 
why  more  of  them  are  not  so  destroyed :  first,  the  light- 
houses are  placed  along  the  migration  routes  while  the 
electric  lights  are  more  often  away  from  these  paths  of 
travel;  and,  second,  foggy  weather  is  needed  to  bewilder 
them,  especially  a  sudden  fog  arising  after  a  clear  day,  an 
occurrence  common  at  the  seashore,  but  rare  inland.  If 
there  is  no  fog,  the  birds  do  not  strike  the  light,  and  unless 
the  fog  comes  in  after  they  have  begun  their  night's  journey, 
they  will  not  travel  that  night.  Mr.  Brewster  infers  that 
they  migrate  only  on  clear,  cool  nights,  and  that  they  are 
unable  to  forecast  the  weather  for  a  single  night  even,  else 
such  fatal  trips  as  the  one  he  describes  would  not  occur. 

But  why,  once  involved  in  a  fog,  having  lost  their  bear- 
ings and  the  sight  of  land,  they  seek  the  lighthouse  as  the 
only  object  visible  is  plain,  and  why  once  within  the  circle 


MIGRATION.  167 

of  its  rays  they  hasten  to  their  own  destruction  we  can  also 
see  by  looking  at  an  electric  light  on  a  foggy  evening,  seeing 
the  halo  it  builds  out  upon  the  mist  and  the  solid  pencils  of 
light  that  stream  out  from  it.  A  bird  striking  one  of  these 
beams  of  light  and  seeing  nothing  beyond  but  a  blank  wall  of 
darkness,  dazzled  and  bewildered,  follows  up  the  ray  in  which 
he  is  confined,  a  cage  of  light  that  he  cannot  break  out  from, 
until  he  dashes  against  the  lantern. 

What  birds  migrate  by  day  and  what  by  night  and  why 
they  differ  in  their  habits,  is  another  interesting  problem  of 
migration,  and  those  who  wish  to  study  further  will  find  in 
the  appendix  Mr.  Brewster's  list  and  his  conclusions,  reached 
after  twenty  years  of  study,  which  show  that  not  even  in 
selecting  a  time  to  travel  do  the  birds  act  without  good 
reasons. 

But  another  point  much  more  likely  to  attract  our  attention 
is  the  way  this  army  is  guided,  why  the  birds  all  go  at  one 
time,  and  how  those  born  in  a  northern  home  can  find  their 
way  thousands  of  miles  to  places  they  have  never  seen.  We 
shall  find  that  they  do  not  all  start  at  one  time,  as  we  com- 
monly think,  but  begin  to  slip  away  weeks  before  we  take 
notice  of  their  departure,  the  places  of  those  we  have  been 
acquainted  with  in  our  gardens  being  filled  with  strangers 
from  the  north.  About  the  earliest  to  leave  in  a  body  are 
the  swallows,  the  dates  of  whose  departure  are  easily  deter- 
mined, but  the  others  are  passing  and  passing  for  many 
weeks  in  a  leisurely  procession.  We  cannot  give  a  better 
idea  of  the  way  the  migration  is  accomplished  than  by  quot- 
ing again  from  Mr.  Brewster :  — 

"  The  conditions  which  cause  one  flock,  or  family,  or  individ- 
ual to  start  southward  are  ordinarily  so  widespread  and  gen- 
erally operative,  that  countless  flocks,  families,  and  individuals 


168  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

are  set  in  motion  at  nearly  the  same  time,  and  the  members  of 
each  flock  or  family,  instead  of  flying  in  close  order,  scatter 
about  sufficiently  to  approach  or  mingle  with  the  stragglers  of 
other  flocks  or  families.  Thus  in  effect  they  form  a  continuous 
but  straggling  army,  often  hundreds  of  miles  in  length,  and 
varying  in  breadth  according  to  the  character  of  the  country 
over  which  it  is  passing. 

"  Over  a  wide,  level,  and  generally  uniform  region  the  host 
spreads  out  in  thin  order  ;  following  a  river  valley,  it  contracts 
and  thickens;  and  at  narrow  passes,  such  as  the  Straits  of 
Mackinac,  it  focusses  its  myriads  into  a  solid  stream. 

"As  is  well  known,  there  are  certain  definite  routes  or  paths 
of  migration  along  which  birds  pass  in  especially  great  num- 
bers. These  are  usually  coast  lines,  river  valleys,  or  continuous 
mountain  ranges.  Toward  them  converge  innumerable  less 
frequented  paths,  each  of  which  in  turn  has  still  smaller  tribu- 
taries of  its  own.  Thus  bird  streams,  like  brooks,  flow  into 
common  channels,  and  each  particular  region  may  be  said  to 
have  its  bird,  as  well  as  water,  shed.  An  important  consid- 
eration is  that  the  tributary  bird  streams  follow  courses  in  no 
wise  strictly  dependent  on  points  of  the  compass. 

"  Bearing  these  facts  in  mind,  the  manner  in  which  birds 
find  their  way  seems  very  simple.  From  the  height  at  which 
they  fly  the  country  presents  the  appearance  of  a  map  on 
which,  in  the  light  of  the  moon  or  stars,  the  mountain  ranges, 
plains,  lakes,  rivers,  and  seacoasts  are  more  or  less  distinctly 
outlined  for  a  hundred  miles  or  more  in  any  direction.  (Any 
one  who  has  spent  a  clear  night  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain, 
will  not  question  this  statement.)  Guided  by  such  landmarks, 
the  older  birds  can  have  no  difficulty  in  following  paths  which 
they  have  repeatedly  traversed  before,  and  they  unquestion- 
ably direct  and  perhaps  lead  all  the  larger  flights,  although  it 


MIGRATION.  169 

is  by  no  means  certain  that  they  do  this  in  a  systematic  man' 
ner,  or  that  their  leadership  is  distinctly  recognized  or  realized 
by  the  younger  birds  who  accompany  or  follow  them.  On  the 
contrary,  the  latter  are  probably  directed  as  well  as  perhaps 
urged  onward,  simply  by  the  contagion  of  general  example  and 
a  desire  to  keep  within  sight  or  hearing  of  their  companions, 
—  both  strong  influences  with  birds,  especially  very  young  ones 
which  have  only  lately  passed  from  a  state  of  complete  de- 
pendence and  are  still  not  wholly  independent.  That  a  very 
few  experienced  old  birds  could  thus  direct  and  guide  the 
movements  of  thousands  of  inexperienced  young  is  to  my  mind 
obvious.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  assume,  nor  in  my  opinion  is  it  likely, 
that  these  flocks  keep  intact  throughout  the  whole  of  their  long 
journey.  .  .  .  But  whether  among  friends  or  strangers,  the 
contagion  of  example  would  not  fail  to  act  on  every  favorable 
occasion,  at  least  as  long  as  old  birds  were  present.  .  .  . 

"  It  may  be  asked  in  this  connection  how  the  various  species 
which  start  together  or  join  one  another  during  the  early  stages 
of  their  journey  separate  again,  as  must  be  the  case,  when 
they  reach  a  point  beyond  which  their  routes  diverge.  An 
answer  to  this  was  suggested  at  Point  Lepreaux  by  the  fact 
that,  while  many  species  of  birds  arrived  together  on  the  same 
night,  and  mingled  indiscriminately  in  the  neighboring  woods 
during  the  following  day,  they  did  not  invariably  depart  to- 
gether or  in  exactly  the  same  direction.  This  leads  me  to 
believe  that  similar  places  along  every  route  constitute  what 
may  be  called  stations  or  points  of  departure.  At  such  places 
—  ordinarily  promontories  extending  into  the  sea,  points  of  tim- 
ber bordering  extensive  plains,  or  the  extremities  of  mountain 
ranges  —  the  migratory  tide  hesitates  and  halts  before  ventur- 
ing on  the  dangerous  stage  ahead,  and  (as  we  know  to  be  the 


170  PROBLEMS   OF  BIRD   LIFE. 

case)  birds  of  various  species  quickly  collect,  often  in  extraor- 
dinary numbers.  This  pause  allows  the  stragglers  to  come  up, 
and  when  the  host  again  starts,  the  different  leaders  are  natu- 
rally followed  by  all  the  members  of  their  own  particular 
species.  I  believe  further  that  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
Alleghanies  is  the  chief  point  of  departure  in  the  eastern 
United  States. 

"  It  may  be  further  objected  that  the  adults  of  many  or,  as 
I  believe  of  all,  species  migrate  southward  first,  and  often 
several  weeks  in  advance  of  the  young.  It  is  perfectly  true, 
nevertheless,  that  a  few  old  birds  are  always  to  be  found  in 
the  larger  flights,  although  the  latest  of  these  are  certainly 
composed  mainly  of  young.  The  two  facts  taken  in  connec- 
tion, however,  seem  to  me  to  strengthen  rather  than  to  weaken 
the  conclusions  just  advanced,  for  it  is  evident  on  the  one  hand 
that  many  of  the  smaller  parties  must  be  entirely  without  ex- 
perienced leaders,  and  equally  clear  on  the  other,  that  a  few 
such  guides  must  always  mingle  in  the  armies  which  these 
parties  collectively  form. 

"Another  possible  objection  which  has  occurred  to  me  is 
that  the  flood-tide  of  migration  is  preceded,  as  well  as  closed, 
by  more  or  less  local  or  limited  movements,  during  which  the 
birds  at  any  one  time  on  the  wing  must  be  too  few  and  too 
scattered  to  constitute  an  uninterrupted  stream.  How,  then, 
do  they  find  their  way  ?  It  may  be  answered  that  the  earlier 
flights  can  have  no  difficulty,  for,  as  already  stated,  they  are 
made  up  chiefly,  if  not  wholly,  of  old  birds,  who,  being  familiar 
with  the  route,  are  independent.  With  the  closing  flights 
there  is  more  trouble,  for  these,  as  we  have  also  seen,  are  com- 
posed chiefly,  and  in)  some  cases  entirely,  of  young.  But  is  it 
necessary  to  assume  that  such  tardy  travellers  often  reach 
their  southern  destination,  unless  fortuitously  and  after  long 


MIGRATION.  171 

wanderings  ?  Are  they  not  much  more  likely  to  perish  of 
cold  or  hunger,  or  to  furnish  some  of  the  many  recorded  cases 
of  exceptional  wintering  or  other  unusual  occurrence  ?  As  far 
as  I  have  seen,  accidental  visitors  to  Massachusetts,  almost 
without  exception,  are  young  birds,  and  the  majority  also  are 
taken  very  late  in  autumn  —  facts  of  obvious  significance  in 
this  connection." 

There  is  one  thing  connected  with  migration  that  as  Amer- 
icans we  cannot  pass  by  without  mention.  Mr.  Frank  M. 
Chapman  has  shown  us  very  plainly  that  without  the  help  of 
the  birds,  Columbus  would  not  have  discovered  America.  All 
the  historians  tell  us  how  he  was  cheered  by  the  sight  of  land- 
birds  "  that  came  singing  in  the  morning  and  flew  away  again 
in  the  evening."  For  more  than  three  weeks  before  they 
sighted  land  they  were  thus  visited  by  land-birds;  "  some  of 
them,  such  as  sing  in  the  fields,  came  flying  about  the  ships, 
and  these  continued  toward  the  southwest,  and  others  were 
heard,  also,  flying  by  night."  A  week  before  they  came  to 
land,  Columbus,  persuaded  that  the  birds  knew  whither  they 
were  going,  turned  his  course  also  to  the  southwest,  taking 
them  as  his  pilots.  And  just  as  he  predicted,  they  did  lead 
him  to  land  two  hundred  and  fifteen  miles,  according  to  the 
historian  Fiske,  nearer  than  the  coast  of  Florida  for  which  he 
had  been  steering.  That  he  could  ever  have  held  his  muti- 
nous sailors  in  check  long  enough  to  cross  so  great  a -distance 
is  hardly  possible.  He  was  well  guided  and  was  happy  in 
trusting  his  heaven-sent  pilots. 

But  we  do  not  yet  understand  how  almost  by  miracle  it  was 
that  he  fell  in  with  these  flights  of  birds.  Mr.  Chapman  was 
the  first  to  point  out  to  us  the  real  significance  of  the  event. 
The  Bermuda  Islands  are  one  of  the  "  stations  "  on  the  way  of 
the  migrating  armies,  and  the  Bahamas,  where  Columbus 


172  PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 

landed,  are  another.  All  the  land-birds  that  touch  at  the  Ber- 
mudas take  a  southwest  course  to  the  Bahamas,  so  that  Colum- 
bus was  running  across  the  line  of  their  annual  flight  before 
he  changed  his  course  and  followed  them.  But  this  migration, 
though  it  carries  myriads  of  birds,  lasts  but  a  short  season. 
Had  Columbus  come  too  early,  he  would  have  seen  no  birds, 
and  a  few  days  later  the  hosts  would  have  been  already  in 
their  Southern  homes.  As  Mr.  Chapman  says  :  "  After  nearly 
twenty  years  of  disappointment,  a  delay  of  ten  days  at  Palos 
would  not  have  seemed  of  much  importance.  But  if  Columbus 
had  sailed  from  Palos  September  16th,  or,  using  the  '  new 
style,'  September  26th,  he  would  have  seen  few  migratory  land- 
birds,  or  none.  Whether,  in  their  absence,  he  would  have  had 
sufficient  influence  over  his  men  to  force  them  to  continue  a 
westward  course,  is  an  open  question ;  but  we  can  clearly  see 
that,  without  the  presence  of  birds,  his  efforts  at  allaying  their 
fears  would  have  been  seconded  by  no  really  conclusive  signs 
of  land." 

And  so  all  good  Americans  must  be  thankful  to  the  birds. 
Had  it  not  been  for  their,  guidance,  the  whole  course  of  Ameri- 
can history  would  have  been  changed,  and,  indeed,  the  history 
of  the  whole  world  would  have  been  different.  For  all  we 
owe  to  the  birds,  both  in  protecting  our  fields  and  orchards, 
and  in  guiding  Columbus  to  land,  are  we  not  bound  to  be  bird 
protectors,  and  good  friends  of  theirs  ? 


PART   IV. 
SOME   COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 


LITTLE  STUDIES  IN   THE   AKT   OF  OBSERVATION. 

"  As  for  fowling,  during  the  last  that  I  carried  a  gun,  my  excuse  was 
that  I  was  studying  ornithology,  and  sought  only  new  or  rare  birds. 
But  I  confess,  I  am  now  inclined  to  think  that  there  is  a  finer  way  of 
studying  ornithology  than  this.  It  requires  so  much  closer  attention 
to  the  habits  of  the  birds,  that,  if  for  that  reason  only,  I  have  been  will- 
ing to  omit  the  gun."  —  THOREAU,  Walden. 


ABOUT   BIRDS'   DRINKING. 

IF  you  wish  to  make  an  experiment  that  will  cost  little 
trouble  and  will  give  much  pleasure,  try  for  a  summer  the 
plan  of  keeping  a  drinking  dish  for  the  birds,  in  some  spot 
loved  by  them.  A  bit  of  shrubbery,  the  neighborhood  of  the 
grape  vine,  the  side  of  a  hedge,  are  usually  spots  that  they 
frequent,  and  the  best  of  all  is  near  a  tree  or  bush  which  bears 
fruit  worthless  to  any  one  but  the  birds.  An  old  tin  baking- 
pan,  not  so  deep  as  to  be  dangerous,  or  else  a  little  tilted  so 
that  the  water  may  shoal  off  gradually,  is  a  bath  tub  that  will 
attract  birds  all  summer  long. 

Birds  love  fresh  water,  and  unless  the  dish  is  kept  neat 
and  clean,  they  will  not  use  it  much.  If  it  is  kept  in  good 
order  and  freshly  filled,  you  will  find  that  all  the  birds  know 
about  it.  Keep  a  list  of  the  different  kinds  that  come,  and, 
if  you  can,  of  the  different  birds.  Some  birds,  by  their  voices, 
their  manners,  or  some  peculiar  marking,  will  be  readily 
recognized,  and  you  will  know  Billy,  or  Peep,  or  Spot,  or 
whatever  you  choose  to  name  him.  Notice  the  time  of  day 
when  each  kind  prefers  to  come  to  bathe,  and  you  will  see 
that  they  have  preferences.  There  are  early  birds,  just  as 
the  proverb  tells  us,  and  there  are  birds  that  are  late  abroad, 
birds  that  are  particular  about  the  temperature  of  their  bath, 
and  others  that  find  nothing  too  cold  for  them.  I  have  seen 
the  little  juncos,  early  in  March,  splashing  in  an  ice-edged 
pool,  and  singing  as  cheerily  as  if  March  were  May. 

Birds  differ  in  their  dispositions  as  much  as  people,  and  it 
is  not  a  little  amusing  to  watch  the  selfish  bird,  or  the  timid 

175 


176  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

bird,  or  the  bird  who  knows  it  all.  Some  demand  the  whole 
bath  for  themselves;  others  are  content  to  share  it;  some  dip 
and  spatter  in  one  way,  while  others  dress  and  preen  them- 
selves after  quite  a  different  fashion.  It  was  always  amusing 
to  me  to  see  a  certain  motherly  old  robin,  who  was  in  the 
greatest  temper  if  any  other  bird  attempted  to  use  the  bath 
while  she  was  in  it.  She  always  intended  to  have  the  whole 
pan  —  and  got  it,  though  not  at  other  times  noticeably  over- 
bearing to  the  other  little  birds.  There,  too,  those  feathered 
ruffians,  the  English  sparrows,  met  their  match  in  the  purple 
finches,  whose  company  the  sparrows  seemed  to  desire  so  much 
that  they  acted  the  toady  quite  humanly,  and  meekly  followed 
their  bright-coated  cousins  about,  pretending  to  peck  at  the 
fallen  mountain  ash  berries,  though  they  despised  such  food. 

While  you  are  watching  birds  drink,  please  observe  the  way 
a  pigeon  drinks.  All  pigeons  drink  in  the  same  way,  and  no 
other  birds  drink  like  them.  The  difference  is  well  worth 
observing  if  you  do  not  remember  what  it  is.  But  there  are 
other  points  of  interest  about  birds'  drinking;  not  only  how, 
but  what  they  drink.  What  do  you  suppose  the  albatrosses 
drink,  and  the  fulmars,  the  shearwaters,  the  petrels,  and  all 
those  birds  that  wander  continually  on  the  high  seas  and  never 
come  to  land  except  to  nest?  Salt  water  undoubtedly.  There 
is  no  record  that  they  do  this,  and  some  persons  have  supposed 
that  because  a  man  would  die  of  thirst  if  he  drank  sea-water, 
it  would  affect  these  birds  in  the  same  way,  and  that  therefore 
they  never  drink  at  all.  This  certainly  is  bad  reasoning.  All 
the  probabilities  are  against  it,  as  we  shall  see. 

There  is  a  class  of  birds  that  live  part  of  the  year  on  the 
seacoast  and  part  of  the  year  inland,  like  the  grebes,  the  loons, 
and  those  gulls  and  terns  that  nest  upon  the  prairies  and  by 
the  shores  of  inland  lakes.  Half  the  year  they  can  get  noth- 


ABOUT  BIRDS'   DRINKING.  177 

ing  but  salt  water  to  drink,  and  the  other  half  they  are  unable 
to  get  anything  but  fresh  water.  Either  they  must  drink  both 
or  they  live  without  drinking  half  the  year. 

There  is  a  pretty  little  story  that  shows  their  need  of  water. 
Some  years  ago  a  gentleman  had  two  little  downy  kittiwake 
gulls  which  he  intended  to  keep  as  pets.  He  gave  them  food 
and  water,  but  they  would  not  drink,  and  in  two  days  one  was 
dead  and  the  other  was  not  likely  to  live  long.  Everything 
possible  was  done  for  him,  and  at  last  to  please  him  a  bucket 
of  salt  water  was  dipped  up  to  give  him  a  bath  and  -a  swim. 
To  the  surprise  of  every  one  he  drank  the  salt  water  eagerly. 
He  was  dying  of  thirst,  but  of  thirst  for  salt  water,  never 
having  learned  to  drink  anything  else.  He  grew  up  to  be  a 
beautiful  bird  and  a  great  pet,  but  he  never  changed  his  habit 
of  drinking  salt  water. 

Yet  this  is  not  an  invariable  habit  with  sea-birds,  for  terns, 
when  nesting  on  low,  sandy  islands  like  Muskeget,  have  been 
observed  to  drink  from  the  pools  of  rain-water  standing  in 
the  hollows  of  the  island.  Therefore  these  birds  can  drink 
both  fresh  and  salt  water,  and  often  are  unable  to  get  any- 
thing but  salt  water.  Which  is  more  reasonable  to  suppose, 
that  the  petrels  and  albatrosses  do  not  drink  at  all,  or  that, 
like  the  terns,  they  drink  salt  water  ? 

The  hunters  along  the  Maine  coast  have  told  me  an  inter- 
esting fact.  They  especially  prize  the  black  mallard,  or  dusky 
duck,  often  called  the  "  black  duck,"  though  it  is  not  black ; 
yet  they  find  him  so  wary  that  he  is  hard  to  approach. 
Now  the  dusky  duck  is  naturally  an  inland  bird,  and  goes 
to  salt  water  only  when  his  food  supply  is  cut  off  by  the 
freezing  of  the  ponds.  But  he  has  a  craving  for  fresh  water 
to  drink,  which  the  hunters  know  and  take  advantage  of. 
In  winter  after  a  thaw  with  heavy  rains,  the  brooks  rise  sud- 


178  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

denly  and  pour  out  a  great  volume  of  fresh  water,  which,  being 
lighter  than  the  salt  water  of  the  ocean,  runs  out  upon  it  as 
it  would  upon  ice  before  the  two  commingle.  So  after  a  rain 
the  dusky  ducks  gather  about  the  mouths  of  streams  running 
into  the  ocean  to  drink  the  fresh  water,  and  here  the  hunters 
come  to  find  them.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  the  scoters  or 
"  coots,"  which  are  true  sea  ducks,  never  come  inshore  to  drink. 
Here  are  some  little  points  for  bright  eyes  to  settle.  Who 
can  make  a  list  of  the  birds  that  quench  their  thirst  by  eating 
snow  ?  Does  a  hawk  ever  drink,  when  wild  ?  And  who  has 
ever  seen  a  woodpecker  drinking  or  bathing  ?  And  what  birds 
take  dust  baths  instead  of  water  baths  ? 


HOW   A   HAWK   EATS   HIS   FOOD. 

x, 

WE  must  not  forget  that  there  are  very  many  kinds  of  hawks 
which  feed  on  everything  from  grasshoppers  and  snakes  to 
squirrels  and  partridges,  so  that  their  ways  of  eating  must  Vary 
somewhat ;  but  we  will  study  only  one,  the  one  that  even  city 
children  may  sometime  chance  to  see,  our  little  sharp-shinned 
hawk,  the  boldest  fellow  for  his  inches  that  wears  feathers, 
excepting  only  the  humming-bird.  Since  the  sparrows  became 
so  abundant,  he  has  learned  to  come  into  the  cities  after  them, 
and  in  winter  he  may  sometimes  be  seen  in  our  parks  or  along 
our  avenues,  chasing  the  sparrows,  without  fear  of  the  multi- 
tudes of  passers-by  or  of  the  thundering  traffic  of  the  streets. 
He  is  equally  at  home  in  the  silent  recesses  of  the  forest  and 
about  the  wind-swept  tops  of  our  bald  mountains,  where  I  have 
often  found  a  little  heap  of  quill-feathers  that  told  me  wno  had 
been  eating  my  friends  the  junco  and  the  chickadee  in  that 
lonely  place. 

It  is  odd,  too,  that  my  only  two  opportunities  to  learn  any- 
thing of  the  feeding  habits  of  this  bold  killer  of  little  birds 
should  have  been  once  in  the  heart  of  the  crowded  city  and 
once  in  the  solemn  quiet  of  the  great  woods. 

My  first  chance  came  to  me  in  the  city  of  Charlestown,  Massa- 
chusetts, along  its  busiest  street.  I  looked  out  at  just  the 
right  moment,  and  there  in  an  elm  tree,  on  a  level  with  the 
second-story  window  and  not  thirty  feet  away,  his  long  tail 
blowing  in  the  winter  wind,  was  a  sharp-shinned  hawk  with 
a  sparrow  pinned  under  one  foot.  What  a  fierce,  alert  bird 
he  was,  with  his  keen  yellow  eye  ranging  on  all  sides  for 

179 


180  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

danger,  as  he  crouched  there,  plucking  his  victim  and  letting 
the  feathers  drift  away  on  the  wind.  What  his  next  work 
would  have  been  after  the  bird  was  plucked  I  could  not  tell, 
I  only  saw  the  long  wing-  and  tail-quills  drop  slowly  down- 
ward, and  the  lighter  feathers  float  away  like  thistle-down  ;  for 
some  noise  or  sight  alarmed  him  and  he  sailed  away,  bearing  his 
victim  in  his  claws. 

A  year  later,  in  the  Maine  woods,  where  the  river  leaps 
tumultuously  over  the  Indian  Falls  on  Webster  Stream,  I 
took  from  the  claws  of  a  hawk  just  killed  the  yet  warm  body 
of  a  little  warbler  that  he  was  eating.  It  could  not  be  identified 
further,  for  the  head  was  gone  and  every  feather  had  been 
stripped  from  it  so  neatly  that  not  one  was  left  to  name  it  by. 
The  intestines  also  had  been  taken  out  by  a  rip  down  the  back 
and  all  the  blood  had  been  drunk  up.  It  was  the  second  stage 
of  the  sharp-shinned  hawk's  preparations  for  dinner  —  or  thex 
first  course,  we  may  say;  for  most  carnivorous  creatures  are 
fond  of  the  brain  of  their  quarry,  and  all  the  hawks  that  I  have 
seen  will  eat  the  head  for  their  first  mouthful.  The  sharp- 
shin  is  also  bloodthirsty  in  its  most  literal  sense,  and  will  drink 
the  blood  with  evident  relish  while  it  is  warm.  More  than 
once  I  have  seen  him  taken  fresh  from  the  killing,  and  his  bill 
was  bloody  to  the  cere. 

Unless  his  large  cousin,  the  Cooper's  hawk,  is  equally 
dainty,  the  sharp-shinned  is  the  nicest  of  our  raptores.  The 
broad-winged  hawk  will  not  trouble  to  skin  a  squirrel  or  even 
the  portions  of  a  rabbit  that  he  eats,  and  the  goshawk,  after 
stripping  off  the  quills  and  a  few  of  the  larger  feathers,  will 
bolt  a  large  hen,  joint  by  joint,  in  less  time  than  it  would  take 
to  describe  the  process.  With  his  strong  claws  he  tears  out 
the  wings  at  the  shoulder  and  the  legs  at  the  hip  and  swal- 
lows them  at  a  gulp.  None  of  our  hawks  is  so  bold,  so  power- 


FIG.  41.  — SHARP-SHINNED  HAWK. 


Facing  page  181. 


HOW  A   HAWK  EATS  HIS  FOOD.  181 

ful,  and  so  cruel  as  this  great  robber  of  the  north  which  comes 
in  winter  to  the  Northern  states  and  is  at  once  conspicuous  by 
his  boldness,  by  his  long  tail  and  round  wings,  and  by  his  steel- 
blue  upper  parts  when  in  full  plumage,  or  his  striped  breast 
when  immature. 

These  three  —  the  goshawk  which  is  rare,  the  little  sharp- 
shinned  hawk,  and  his  large  cousin,  the  Cooper's  hawk,  which 
you  would  probably  mistake  for  a  very  large  sharp-shinned 
hawk  unless  you  noticed  critically  the  shape  of  the  end  of  the 
tail  and  the  color  of  the  top  of  the  head  —  are  the  three  most 
destructive  hawks.  For  all  the  others  some  good  word  can 
be  said. 

The  sharp-shinned  hawk  has  a  double,  the  pigeon  hawk,  so 
near  like  himself  in  size  and  color  that  even  if  you  had  both 
in  your  hand  you  probably  could  not  distinguish  them  until 
advised  how  to  do  so.  But  besides  differences  in  the  bill, 
the  pigeon  hawk's  wings  are  sharp  and  pointed,  while  the 
sharp-shinned  hawk's  are  round.  The  two  birds  also  fly  very 
differently,  so  that  it  is  not  hard  to  distinguish  them  in  life. 

Are  their  feeding  habits  alike  ?  I  never  saw  the  pigeon 
hawk  eat,  but  I  have  watched  him  clean  himself  up  after  a 
meal.  He  was  very  leisurely  about  it,  and  must  have  spent  at 
least  thirty  minutes  on  his  toilet,  opening  his  tail  and  laying 
the  feathers  in  perfect  order,  spreading  each  wing  and  dress- 
ing the  quills  with  his  bill,  and  putting  up  his  claws  to  clean 
his  bill  of  feathers.  I  had  not  supposed  that  making  its  toilet 
was  such  serious  business  with  a  hawk. 

Before  we  leave  the  subject  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the 
hawk's  foot.  The  sharp-shinned  hawk,  as  you  have  guessed, 
gets  its  name  from  its  long  slender  legs.  The  tarsi  and  toes 
are  so  thin  that  the  bird  looks  spindle-shanked,  and  we  note  a 
peculiar  modification  of  the  foot  on  this  account.  There  are 


182  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

heavy  pads  under  each  joint,  it  is  true,  to  enable  the  bird  to 
grasp  as  firmly  as  possible  whatever  it  lays  hold  of ;  but  that 
is  not  what  I  mean.  Do  you  see  that  the  middle  toe  is  so  long 
that  it  will  wrap  almost  around  a  small  bird,  and  its  claw  will 
be  struck  in  near  the  claw  of  the  hind  toe  ?  This  is  a  weak- 
ness. For  a  strong  grip  the  claws  should  oppose  each  other 
fairly  and  strike  the  body  of  the  victim,  not  on  the  same  side, 
but  on  opposite  sides.  In  the  other  hawks  we  find  this  ar- 
rangement, and  we  notice  that  the  middle  toe  bears  the  largest, 
strongest  claw.  In  this  bird  we  see  that  it  is  the  inner  toe, 
the  second  toe,  that  has  the  largest  nail.  This  toe,  then,  does 
the  same  work  as  the  middle  toe  of  the  other  hawks  in  the 
capture  of  small  prey,  and  the  long  middle  toe  is  of  particular 
service  with  larger  game,  giving  a  wider  grip  and  enabling 
the  hawk,  whether  he  strikes  small  game  or  large,  to  hold 
with  equal  security.  It  is  well  known  that  this  bold  little 
hawk  frequently  attacks  birds  larger  than  himself,  which  he 
cannot  paralyze  and  cannot  carry  oft'  at  once.  By  this  device 
he  is  enabled  to  hold  on  until  he  tires  them  out.  The  very 
possession  of  such  a  foot  is  an  evidence  of  his  ferocity  and 
bloodthirstiness. 


THE   SMALL  FLYCATCHERS. 

THE  old  proverb  of  "  a  bird  in  the  hand  "  gets  a  stiff  rebuff 
among  the  small  flycatchers.  To  the  amateur  naturalist,  for  the 
purpose  of  identification,  a  live  flycatcher  in  the  bush,  if  decently 
tame  and  sociable,  is  worth  half  a  dozen  dead  ones  in  the  hand. 

Those  who  know  about  birds  may  consider  it  ill-advised 
to  introduce  young  beginners  to  this  puzzling  group  of  the 
little  flycatchers ;  but  the  best  lesson  a  novice  can  learn  is 
to  single  out  the  largest  lion  that  lies  in  his  pathway,  and, 
"  having  killed  him,  to  go  on  singing."  The  small  flycatchers 
are  hard  to  study,  especially  when  they  are  dead  and  unable 
to  speak  for  themselves,  but  as  we  learn  about  them  we 
find  out  a  remarkable  fact.  It  is  that  two  birds  may  have 
scarcely  a  feather's  difference  between  them,  may  be  so  near 
alike  that  only  experts  can  determine  the  differences,  and  yet 
may  be  entirely  distinct,  so  unlike  that  no  one  would  think 
of  calling  them  the  same  species.  Much  as  we  sometimes  envy 
the  man  who  shoots  little  birds  his  opportunities  for  looking  at 
every  feather,  in  the  case  of  the  little  flycatchers  the  advantage 
lies  all  on  the  side  of  the  man  who  hunts  them  without  a  gun. 
Their  habits  are  unlike,  their  haunts  are  different,  their  notes  are 
individual,  and  the  nests  and  eggs  vary  with  each  species  so  that 
they  are  identified  even  more  readily  than  the  birds  themselves. 

Up  to  a  certain  point  no  bird  is  easier  to  determine  than  a 
flycatcher.  As  far  off  as  you  can  see  or  hear  him  you  know 
his  ways  and  his  voice.  At  one  hundred  and  ten  measured 
feet  I  have  been  able,  without  a  glass,  to  recognize  a  phrebe 
merely  by  the  way  he  sat  on  a  limb,  and  after  a  little  experi- 
ence any  one  can  readily  pick  out  a  flycatcher  when  no  one 

183 


184  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIEDS. 

color  or  mark  is  visible.  They  are  fond  of  particular  places, 
usually  a  dry  twig,  which  gives  a  clear  view  and  a  small  perch 
for  their  tiny  feet.  Day  after  day  they  return  to  the  same 
twig  and  keep  up  a  patient  watch  for  flies.  The  wood  pewee, 
which  has  this  habit  in  the  most  marked  degree,  in  the  South  is 
called  the  "  dead-limb  bird."  Often,  when  he  is  not  at  home,  one 
can  pick  out  his  favorite  perch  by  the  signs  of  long  occupation. 

For  all  that  the  flycatchers  sit  so  still,  they  are  nervous 
birds.  The  snapping  of  their  bills,  the  quick  twitching  of 
their  tails,  and  their  short,  abrupt  motions  are  a  strong 
contrast  to  the  composed  industry  of  the  vireos  and  warblers. 
As  they  sit  on  their  perches, /the  flycatchers  are  big-headed, 
square-shouldered,  erect  little  birds,  and  their  tails  hang  straight 
down  over  the  limb.  Close  at  hand  one  notices  the  large,  round, 
buff-ringed  eyes,,  full  of  intelligence  and  decision,  and  the 
breadth  of  bill,  which  gives  them  a  wide-mouthed  look.  In 
color,,  all  the  small  flycatchers  —  except  a  bright  scarlet  one 
that  lives  in  Mexico  and  along  the  southwestern  boundary  — 
are  much  alike,  —  a  dull  brownish  olive,  with  lighter,  sometimes 
quite  yellowish,  underparts  and  with  two  light  wing-bands. 
The  shade  varies,  especially  with  the  season,  but  the  pattern 
of  coloration  never  does. 

The  flycatching  habit  from  which  they  get  their  name 
is  not  peculiar  to  this  family.  Some  woodpeckers  are  ex- 
pert flycatchers;  a  number  of  the  warblers  find  much  of 
their  food  in  this  way ;  I  have  seen  chipping  sparrows 
catching  insects  at  odd  intervals  and  other  birds,  the  king- 
fisher for  example,  will  do  it  now  and  then;  but  the 
manner  of  sitting  still  and  erect,  the  habit  of  twitching  the  tail, 
and  the  tuneless  voice,  are  characteristic  of  the  flycatchers. 
From  three  to  five  of  these  little  birds  are  found  in  most 
localities,  the  species  varying  with  the  place. 


FIG.  42.  — PHCEBE. 


Facing  page  185. 


THE  SMALL  FLYCATCHERS.  185 

No  bird  is  more  sociable  than  the  least  flycatcher,  or  chebec. 
He  likes  to  live  with  people,  in  orchard  and  shade  trees,  and 
prefers  to  nest  in  an  apple  tree.  He  is  fond  of  society,  and 
wiH,  by  preference^  take  a  perch  that  commands  your  windows 
or  your  piazza,  where  he  will  sit  and  snap  his  bill  and  chebec 
at  you  with  intelligent  sprightliness.  How  much  the  little 
fellow  wants  to  talk !  What  sensible  remarks  he  appears  capa- 
ble of  making!  His  big  head  seems  full  of  ideas;  he  wants 
to  tell  you  something,  and  men  are  so  stupid !  There  is  good 
reason  for  his  sharp,  snappy  remarks,  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  little  turns  of  flycatching. 

The  wood  pewee  is  quite  a  different  bird.  He  does  not 
court  society,  but  sits  high  up  in  a  tree,  an  elm  or  maple  when 
in  village  streets,  and  from  his  retirement  drawls  out  his  slow 
pee-e-wee  or  pee-er-ree.  It  is  hot  weather  music,  languid  and 
listless,  as  fitted  to  the  warmth  of  June  and  July  as  is  the 
cicada's  z-ing  to  the  heat  of  August.  We  see  little  of  the  wood 
pewee,  though  he  is  common  enough.  Every  year  he  nests  in 
my  garden ;  but,  as  he  builds  some  thirty  or  forty  feet  above 
the  ground,  in  the  limbs  of  the  bushiest  maples,  I  never  find 
his  nest  till  autumn  strips  off  the  leaves.  I  am  accustomed  to 
his  retired,  listless,  melancholy  ways,  credit  him  with  being 
here  when  I  hear  his  pe&-er-ree,  and  do  not  much  court  his 
companionship  when  he  seems  not  to  care  for  mine. 

Phoebe  is  larger  and  browner  than  the  others,  seeks  more 
open  locations,  and  builds  about  outhouses,  and  farms,  and 
beneath  bridges,  especially  in  deserted  houses  and  the  horse- 
sheds  attached  to  country  churches.  Phoebe  is  a  brisk,  alert 
bird,  always  calling  out  phodte!  phoebe!  pewit  phoebe,  and  click- 
ing her  bill  as  she  snaps  her  tail  back  and  forth.  Sometimes, 
on  one  of  her  sallies,  she  will  catch  several  insects  before 
returning  to  her  perch.  Few  birds  are  so  domestic  as  phoebe. 


186  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

She  builds  near  man,  and  spends  her  time  among  his  groves 
and  orchards.  As  she  is  an  early  coiner,  her  spring  greeting 
is  always  welcome ;  and  as  she  has  no  bad  habits,  she  never 
wears  her  welcome  out. 

These  are  the  commonest  small  flycatchers  of  the  East,  and 
with  the  kingbird  make  up  the  bulk  of  those  we  meet.  Some- 
times a  great-crested  flycatcher  will  build  her  nest,  wreathed 
with  snakeskins,  in  a  hole  in  a  tree,  or  an  olive-sided  fly- 
catcher will  mount  guard  over  some  remote  meadow  and  warn 
off  all  intruders  with  his  harsh  cries ;  but  more  often  the  new 
bird,  if  we  find  a  new  one,  will  be  a  small  bird,  of  the  size  and 
color  of  the  chebec.  He  will  be  a  source  of  perplexity  wher- 
ever he  occurs  because  he  will  do  things  that  the  chebec 
does  not  do.  I  first  noticed  him  because  he  acted  so  nmch  like 
a  chebec  gone  crazy.  There  were  half  a  dozen  of  them  in  a 
fringe  of  willows  between  a  sloping  field  and  the  marsh  where 
the  red-winged  blackbirds  lived.  Instead  of  sitting  out  in 
plain  view,  they  kept  inside  the  willows  out  of  sight ;  instead 
of  darting  out  after  flies,  they  flew  upward,  with  a  loud,  pecul- 
iar note,  turned  a  somersault  above  the  tree,  and  dived  again 
into  the  middle  of  it.  It  was  quite  impossible  to  believe  that 
they  were  sedate,  inquisitive  little  chebecs  like  those  that 
nested  in  our  garden  and  perched  on  the  bean-poles  to  inspect 
the  hoeing  and  to  talk  to  us.  As  indeed  they  were  not,  but 
the  alder  flycatcher,  the  Eastern  subspecies,  of  the  Traill's  fly- 
catcher. This  bird  is  fond  of  the  neighborhood  of  water,  and 
is  seldom  seen  far  away  from  low  land  ;  just  as  the  least  fly- 
catcher, or  chebec,  is  not  common  away  from  cultivated 
grounds,  as  the  Acadian,  or  green-crested  flycatcher  is  the 
inhabitant  of  upland  groves  of  beeches,  and  as  the  yellow- 
bellied  flycatcher  is  a  denizen  of  evergreen  growth. 

The  nests  are  almost  a  sure  means  of  identifying  all  these 


THE  SMALL  FLYCATCHERS.  187 

little  flycatchers.  The  phcebe  is  the  only  bird  that  habitually 
builds  under  bridges  or  inside  of  deserted  houses,  and  any  fly- 
catcher's nest  discovered  in  such  a  place  may  be  safely  called 
hers.  A  nest  in  an  evergreen  tree  near  the  water,  saddled 
high  up  on  an  outstretched  limb,  is  the  olive-sided  flycatcher's; 
but  this  is  a  rare,  northern  species.  A  flycatcher's  nest  found 
upon  the  ground  is  the  yellow-bellied  flycatcher's,  and  this 
will  be  sure  to  be  a  bulky  nest  of  moss  and  leaves  sunk  in  a 
mossy  bank  or  between  tree  roots,  in  evergreen  growth  and 
usually  near  running  water.  A  flycatcher's  nest  found  low 
down  in  a  bush  near  water  is  the  Traill's,  or  the  alder  fly- 
catcher's, which  builds  a  bulky  nest  about  four  feet  from  the 
ground,  in  the  upright  forks  of  a  willow,  alder,  or  aspen,  or 
even,  in  the  Northwest,  among  ferns.  The  chebec  builds  a 
smaller  nest,  puts  it  higher  up,  usually  selects  an  apple  tree  or 
some  bush  or  tree  near  cultivated  land.  She  lays  a  buffy 
white  egg,  not  speckled  like  the  Traill's  flycatcher  and  the 
wood  pe wee's,  and  very  much  smaller  than  the  big  spotted  egg 
of  the  kingbird,  which  chooses  similar  places.  The  Acadian, 
or  green-crested  flycatcher,  lives  among  beech  woods  prin- 
cipally ;  and  there  in  the  end  fork  of  a  drooping  branch,  such 
a  place  as  a  red-eyed  vireo  would  choose,  constructs  a  shallow, 
flimsy  nest,  not  to  be  mistaken  for  the  vireo's  deep  cup 
wrought  of  birch-bark  and  'hornet's  nest.  The  wood  pewee 
builds  a  shallow  nest  and  saddles  it  upon  a  limb  high  up  in 
a  maple  or  other  shade  tree: — a  nest  noticeably  unlike  the 
deeper,  cup-shaped  nests  of  most  of  the  other  small  flycatch- 
ers. Thus  each  one  has  her  own  way  of  building,  though  all 
dress  and  look  nearly  alike,  and  by  the  house  they  leave  be- 
hind them,  we  may  identify  the  bird  that  made  it,  though  if 
we  had  the  bird  in  our  own  hands  we  might  not  be  able  to  tell 
its  name. 


SPRING  IN   WESTERN  OREGON. 

THE  BOOMING  OF  THE  SOOTY  GROUSE. 

SPRING  in  western  Oregon  is  perhaps  as  welcome  and  as 
beautiful  as  spring  in  any  part  of  the  country ;  for  if  it  does 
not  follow  a  cold  and  snowy  winter,  it  brings  sunshine  after 
a  season  of  cloud  and  constant  rain.  What  a  joy  it  is  to  see 
Mount  Hood  blinking  in  the  steam  drawn  up  by  the  warm 
sun  from  the  water-soaked  ground,  while  a  Western  meadow- 
lark  on  a  fence,  with  the  sunshine  in  his  beautiful  breast, 
sings  us  into  summer  !  Mount  Hood  and  the  Western  meadow- 
larks  always  seem  to  belong  together  as  two  of  the  surpassing 
creations  of  the  Lord.  As  the  mountains  of  the  East  are  less 
grand  than  these  snow-capped  monarchs  of  the  Coast  Range, 
so  the  Eastern  meadow-lark,  with  his  sweet,  melancholy  te-lee- 
e-ri-6,  is  no  way  to  be  compared  with  this  glorious  songster  of 
the  West,  who  is  thrush  and  skylark  and  nightingale  in  one. 
If  he  is  not  our  best  singer,  —  and  on  that  point  there  has 
been  some  discussion,  —  he  at  least  comes  upon  the  stage 
when  his  presence  is  most  effective ;  ."  For,  lo,  the  winter  is 
past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone ;  the  flowers  appear  on  the 
earth ;  the  time  of  the  singing  birds  is  come." 

Late  March  and  early  April  in  western  Oregon  are  a  time 
of  gladness  to  the  woods  wanderer.  The  mud  is  drying 
enough  to  render  roads  and  woods  passable,  and  the  birds  and 
blossoms  are  making  everything  gay.  From  the  brilliant 
yellow  skunk-cabbage,  that  looks  like  a  calla-lily,  and  the 
golden  clumps  of  the  Mahonia,  or  "Oregon  grape,"  to  the 

188 


FIG.  43.  — SOOTY   GROUSE. 


Facing  page  188. 


SPRING  IN   WESTERN   OREGON.  189 

soft-pink  salmon  berry  and  fire-pink  wild  currants,  the  native 
spring  flowers  by  the  roadside  strike  a  high  note  of  color. 
There  is  a  marked  contrast  to  our  own  delicate,  pale-colored, 
spring  blossoms. 

What  most  impresses  an  Easterner  going  to  the  North- 
west coast  is  that  all  is  so  familiar  and  yet  so  different. 
It  becomes  confusing,  like  well-known  voices  speaking  from 
unknown  presences.  When  we  stop  to  think,  it  seems  as 
if  something  had  happened  to  us  instead  of  to  the  flowers. 
Here  are  white  trilliums,  dog-tooth  violets,  yellow  violets, 
and  lady's-sorrel,  among  other  old  favorites,  but  all  twice 
as  large  as  those  at  home  and  many  of  them  curiously 
different  in  color.  There  are  more  yellow  flowers  than  at 
home  ;  blue  flowers  are  replaced  by  white ;  white  ones  take 
a  flush  of  pink.  It  seems  quite  homelike  to  see  a  familiar 
flower  until  it  turns  up  a  strange  face  when  you  stoop  to  pet  it. 

And  yet  there  is  much  that  is  the  same.  The  coast  of 
Puget  Sound  might  be  the  Maine  seacoast,  but  that  it  is  less 
rocky  and  irregular.  The  woods  of  Washington  and  Oregon 
have  much  in  common  with  the  primeval  forest,  now  almost 
gone,  that  once  overspread  all  New  England.  In  many 
sections  there  are  no  round-topped,  hardwood  trees  to  fill  up 
the  distant  prospect,  and  the  tall,  spire-pointed  pines  inarch 
up  the  foothills  in  loose  ranks,  —  but  they  are  pines ;  and  the 
fir  tree  does  not  badly  simulate  the  old-growth  hemlock  of 
our  Eastern  forests.  And  when,  in  some  upland  gully,  among 
brakes  and  alders,  I  have  scared  the  ruffed  grouse  from  his 
drumming-log,  it  all  seemed  home  once  more.  But  the  alders 
overhead  were  a  forest ;  the  brakes  in  the  open  rose  above 
my  shoulders  ;  the  drumming-log  was  five  feet  through.  In 
this  enchanted  forest  only  the  partridge  and  myself  were  of 
the  right  dimensions,  and  he,  too,  was  different.  The  familiar 


190  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

aspect  wore  away  and  left  me  once  more  bewildered  by  a 
newness  that  was  not  new. 

Among  the  birds  many  are  old  friends,  some  just  the  same 
and  some  a  little  changed.  Eave  and  barn  and  tree  swallows 
twitter  and  sport  in  the  air,  and  with  them  is  a  new  acquaint- 
ance, the  violet-green  swallow.  The  social  chimney  swift  is 
lacking,  but  his  place  in  the  air,  if  not  in  our  affections,  is 
filled  by  the  rarer  and  more  retiring  Vaux's  swift,  which  still 
nests  in  hollow  trees  as  a  bird  of  the  wilderness.  A  towhee 
in  black  and  white  and  chestnut,  apparently  our  own,  shows 
his  unlikeness  by  mewing  at  you  from  the  lower  boughs  of 
an  evergreen.  It  is  the  Oregon  towhee,  an  unfamiliar  species, 
though  from  his  color  you  would  never  guess  it.  A  junco 
spreads  his  white-edged  tail  as  he  flits  to  one  side ;  but  it  is 
the  Oregon  junco,  a  little  browner  on  the  back  and  sides  than 
ours,  though  similar  in  habits.  When  I  found  its  nest  in  a 
horse's  hoof -print  in  a  deserted  woods-road,  it  seemed  to  me  in 
all  respects  like  our  little  Eastern  j  unco's  home  in  bank  sides 
and  under  tree  roots.  In  the  woods,  the  ruffed  grouse  that  you 
hear  drumming  is  the  Oregon  ruffed  grouse  —  our  bird  in  all 
save  the  brighter  red-brown  tinge  of  the  back.  On  a  high 
branch  a  flicker  —  but  the  red-shafted  flicker  of  the  North- 
west coast  —  whickers  familiarly,  and  where  the  timber  is 
heavy  our  old  Maine  friend,  the  pileated  woodpecker,  the 
king  of  all  the  Northern  woodpeckers,  raps  unseen  at  his  work, 
or  cackles  on  his  undulating  flight  from  tree  to  tree. 

Mingled  with  those  we  recognize  are  other  birds  new 
and  strange,  — the  dark-colored  Steller's  jay  that  replaces  our 
blue  jay;  the  red-breasted  sapsucker,  a  gayer  substitute  for 
our  yellow-bellied  sapsucker,  at  a  distance  nearly  resembling 
our  red-headed  woodpecker ;  the  Oregon  jay,  as  hoary-headed 
a  villain  as  our  Canada  jay,  and  no  improvement  in  either 


SPUING  IN   WESTERN  OREGON.  191 

manners  or  morals  on  that  soft-spoken  reprobate.  The  pygmy 
nuthatch  runs  up  and  down  the  tree  trunks,  the  Audubon's 
and  the  hermit  warblers  sport  in  the  branches  on  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  and  to  a  lone  tree  in  a  clearing  a  Lewis's  woodpecker 
Haps  her  heavy  flight,  betraying  the  secret  of  her  nest  to  all 
observers.  These  are  the  familiar  sights  near  the  borders 
of  an  Oregon  forest. 

Sometimes  in  following  up  one  of  the  clear  mountain  streams 
of  Oregon,  cold,'  green,  and  sparkling,  that  sweep  down  through 
the  deep,  narrow  canons  from  their  sources  among  the  moun- 
tain snows,  one  may  hear  among  the  scattered  firs  or  pines 
above  the  undergrowth,  the  love-call  of  the  sooty  grouse.  It  is 
a  sound  equally  hard  to  locate  and  to  describe.  The  residents 
sometimes  call  it  "hooting"  and  sometimes  "booming."  You 
may  look  high  for  it,  you  may  look  low  for  it,  but  you  will  not 
be  able  to  tell  whether  it  is  near  at  hand  or  far  away.  The 
best  way,  perhaps,  is  not  to  seek  the  voice  but  to  look  out 
from  some  convenient  resting-place  halfway  up  the  canon 
side,  where  you  are  on  a  level  with  the  branches  of  the  trees 
below  you.  From  such  an  outlook  you  may  sometimes  see  the 
male  grouse  in  the  very  act  of  booming. 

He  is  a  bird  as  large  as  a  hen,  dull-colored  and  unin- 
teresting in  appearance,  a  mingled  black  and  slatey  black, 
with  a  few  whitish  markings  that  only  help  to  blend 
his  color  with  the  dark  shadows  of  the  Oregon  forest. 
Above  each  eye  is  a  featherless  tract,  and  on  the  neck 
of  the  male  are  two  pouches  of  bare  skin,  which  ordinarily 
are  hidden  from  view  by  the  feathers.  In  the  spring, 
however,  when  the  male  bird  booms,  these  pouches  undergo 
a  change  and  become  a  pinkish  orange.  During  the  act  of 
booming  they  stand  out  like  small  oranges  on  each  side  of  the 
bird's  head.  Whether  the  noise  is  caused  in  taking  the  air 


192  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

into  the  pouches,  or  in  letting  it  escape  no  one  can  say ;  but  it 
seems  not  unlikely  that  it  is  the  escaping  air,  rushing  through 
the  vocal  cords,  that  creates  the  sound,  just  as  in  penny- whis- 
tles it  is  the  escape  of  the  air  from  the  inflated  rubber  bag 
that  does  the  whistling.  At  least,  if  you  watch  the  sooty 
grouse,  you  will  see  that  his  bill  is  open  when  the  noise  is 
made.  On  the  other  hand,  when  a  horned  owl  hoots  his  bill  is 
closed. 

When  he  booms,  the  male  grouse  takes  up  his  position  on  a 
horizontal  limb  fifty  feet  or  more  from  the  ground,  and,  sitting 
crosswise  of  his  perch,  crouches  low,  with  wings  drooping  and 
tail  spread.  The  air  sacks  swell  till  they  almost  hide  the 
head,  the  red  skin  above  the  eye  rises  like  a  comb,  the  bill  is 
opened,  the  sacks  contract  and  dilate  and  "  poom-poom-poom- 
um-poom"  sounds  the  mellow  love-call  over  the  canon.  Five 
or  six  times  in  succession  is  the  " poom-poom-poom-um-poom  " 
repeated  before  the  bird  stops  to  rest. 

The  female  is  not  visible.  Perhaps,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  ruffed  grouse,  her  presence  makes  no  difference  in  the 
performance,  which  is  for  the  male's  own  delight  rather  than 
to  attract  a  mate.  While  the  male  is  booming,  she  inay  be 
dusting  her  feathers  on  some  dry  knoll,  or  she  may  be 
hopping  from  branch  to  branch  as  she  leisurely  climbs  to 
the  top  of  a  tall  fie  tree,  or  she  may  be  sitting  cross- 
wise of  a  limb  looking  out  over  the  canon.  She  listens  to  the 
mellow  love-call  of  her  mate,  she  basks  in  the  warm  spring 
sun,  and,  while  the  spring  lasts,  before  the  summer  cares  of 
the  family  have  come,  or  the  autumn  fear  of  gunners  in  the 
"open  season,"  or  the  dripping  winter  rains  have  made  the 
woods  a  sodden  swamp,  she  enjoys  the  greatest  peace  and 
leisure  of  her  life. 

If  it  were  possible  to  linger  in  the  oozy,  mossy  forests  of 


SPRING  IN   WESTERN  OREGON.  193 

the  Northwest,  we  should  meet  many  new  birds  and  should 
become  more  and  more  impressed  with  the  effect  of  climate 
upon  a  bird's  color.  A  bright  winter  day  is  rare.  Everything 
is  wet,  mossy,  oozy.  Houses,  rocks,  and  trees  are  covered  with 
moss.  .  The  hardwood  trees  are  draped  with  moss,  the  ever- 
greens with  ferns  that  grow  up  the  trunks  and  along  the 
branches,  and  hang  down  like  the  fringes  on  buckskin  leggings. 
A  thousand  rivulets  and  streams  gush  from  the  edges  of  the 
forest  and  pour  into  the  larger  streams  and  rivers.  A  rising 
vapor  or  a  falling  mist  marks  the  difference  between  fair 
weather  and  foul.  The  effect  of  all  this  gloom  and  moisture 
becomes  very  apparent  when  we  notice  the  birds  that  do  not 
migrate.  The  summer  visitors,  who  stay  only  during  the 
bright  and  beautiful  season,  would  hardly  be  much  affected  by 
the  climate.  The  residents,  on  the  other  hand,  are  apt  to  be 
larger  than  their  Eastern  relatives,  darker,  and  with  a  dull 
slate-gray  cast  which  matches  well  the  gloomy  woods  about 
them,  as  if  the  clear  colors  had  been  soaked  out  of  their  plu- 
mage. The  song-sparrow  becomes  a  streaked  brown,  the  flicker 
grows  dull-colored,  the  jays  are  dark,  the  bright  rufous  fox 
sparrow  turns  to  a  slatey  brown.  The  sooty  grouse  which 
we  have  just  been  observing  is  notably  dull-colored.  There  is 
one  exception.  The  ruffed  grouse  of  the  Northwest  coast 
loses  his  cool  clear  grays  and  browns  and  becomes  distinctly 
rufous.  Why  is  it  that  the  .climate  should  affect  one  bird  in 
one  way  and  another  in  a  different  way  ?  This  is  one  of  the 
naturalist's  problems  ;  even  a  child  might  ask  the  question, 
but  the  wise  men  have  not  yet  answered  it. 


A  WINTER   RESIDENT. 

THE    RUFFED    GROUSE. 

"  The  north  wind  doth  blow, 
And  we  shall  have  snow, 
And  what  will  poor  robin  do  then  ? 
Poor  thing  ! 

"  He'll  sit  in  the  barn, 
And  keep  himself  warm, 
And  hide  his  head  under  his  wing, 

Poor  thing ! " 

BUT  Robin  Hood's  barn,  where  the  ruffed  grouse  spends  his 
days  and  nights,  is  sometimes  a  very  cold  house,  especially  up 
in  Maine,  where  the  mercury  shrinks  down  into  the  bulb,  and 
the  snow  often  lies  level  with  the  fences.  No  matter  how 
cold  it  is,  the  grouse  never  goes  south ;  no  matter  how  deep 
the .  snow  is,  he  must  get  a  living  of  vegetable  food,  for  never, 
except  in  summer,  when  he  catches  a  few  grasshoppers,  does 
the  grouse  eat  anything  else.  But  what  is  there  in  the  woods 
in  winter  for  the  grouse  to  eat  ?  How  does  he  get  a  living 
when  not  a  leaf,  or  berry,  or  green  thing  is  above  the  snow  ? 

If  you  are  driving  along  country  roads  in  early  morning  or 
at  nightfall,  you  may  expect  to  see  him  gathering  one  of  his  two 
daily  meals.  Up  in  a  poplar,  or  a  birch  tree,  he  will  be  stand- 
ing, snapping  off  the  brittle  ends  of  the  twigs.  Sticks,  noth- 
ing but  sticks,  are  his  supper.  And  for  many  months  in  the 
year  he  feeds  on  sticks.  Sometimes,  in  the  city,  warm  even 

194 


FIG.  44.  —  RUFFED  GROUSE. 


Facing  page  194. 


A    WINTER  RESIDENT.  195 

in  winter  nights  under  the  blanket  of  smoke  which  overhangs, 
and  abounding  in  dainties  of  all  kinds,  my  thoughts  turn  to 
the  ruffed  grouse  in  a  bare  tree-top,  picking  his  supper  of 
frozen  twigs  before  he  goes  to  his  bed  in  'the  cold  snow; 
houseless,  unsheltered,  knowing  no  change  of  diet  the  long 
winter  through,  yet  always  plump  and  contented.  Brave  bird ! 
he  loves  the  cold  and  his  plain,  bitter  food. 

To  us,  poplar  is  unpalatable,  but  it  is  the  ruffed  grouse's 
staff  of  life.  Not  only  does  he  eat  poplar  buds  and  twigs  all 
winter,  varying  them  only  by  the  addition  of  yellow-  and  white- 
birch  buds,  and  occasionally  by  the  buds  of  apple,  hornbeam,  or 
willow;  but  he  resorts  to  poplar  long  before  the  snows  have 
driven  him  into  the  tree-tops.  He  not  only  "buds"  as  the 
hunters  say,  during  the  fall,  but  sometimes,  even  in  August, 
when  his  bill  of  fare  is  almost  unlimited,  he  eats  heartily  of  the 
hard,  sapless  leaves  of  the  poplar.  And  late  in  spring,  too,  he 
continues  to  live  by  the  poplar,  eating  the  catkins  even  when 
they  are  three  inches  long,  and  look  like  great  woolly  cater- 
pillars. But  in  spring  he  also  eats  the  willow  buds  and  the 
pretty  "pussies,"  or  willow  catkins.  As  the  willow  contains  a 
purple  dye,  a  grouse  that  has  been  feeding  long  on  them  will 
have  its  stomach  and  intestines  dyed  bright  purple. 

As  the  snow  melts,  the  grouse  goes  down  upon  the  ground  and 
picks  the  young  leaves  just  coming  up  and  the  older  ones  that 
have  remained  green  under  the  snow  —  checkerberry  leaves  and 
berries,  goldthread  leaves,  clover  and  strawberry  leaves,  and, 
later,  the  strawberries,  together  with  raspberries  and  black- 
berries in  summer,  rose-hips  when  they  ripen,  sweet  elder- 
berries, thorn  plums  in  the  fall,  black  alder  berries  to  some 
extent,  and  rarely  a  little  rock  fern  or  tree-growing  fungus. 
Beechnuts  are  a  favorite  food,  as  they  are  for  deer,  bear,  porcu- 
pines, and  other  wood's  creatures.  The  ruffed  grouse  will  eat  as 


196  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

many  as  eighty  of  the  sharp-angled  little  nuts  and  appear  not 
to  mind  their  points  and  corners. 

It  takes  a  great  quantity  of  food  to  satisfy  the  grouse.  Of 
poplar  twigs  he  will  eat  a  cupful  for  a  meal  if  left  to  satisfy 
his  appetite  undisturbed.  After  a  full  meal  his  crop  is  swelled 
enormously,  for  he  keeps  them  in  his  crop  until  he  has  col- 
lected his  full  supply.  Thus,  like  the  cow  and  other  ruminant 
animals,  he  can  gather  a  supply  quickly  and  digest  at  his 
leisure,  in  some  more  retired  and  safer  spot,  if  necessary. 

'  Supper  gathered,  the  ruffed  grouse  seeks  his  bed.  Some- 
times he  settles  down  in  a  sheltered  nook ;  sometimes,  and 
especially  in  snowy  weather,  he  dives  quite  beneath  the  light 
snow  and  lets  it  fall  upon  him  like  a  coverlet  of  down.  These 
are  his  warmest  nights.  If  he  likes  his  quarters,  he  may  stay 
beneath  the  snow  for  several  days,  picking  up  goldthread 
leaves,  or  beechnuts,  or  checkerberry  leaves,  or  whatever  food 
lies  beneath  the  snow.  Is  it  dark  there  ?  Not  mirk  dark,  I 
fancy,  but  like  being  down  cellar  when  the  windows  are 
blocked  with  snow,  for  the  snow  is  translucent  —  a  soft  light 
comes  through  it  as  through  a  porcelain  lamp-shade.  Soft, 
dry  snow  also  contains  a  large  amount  of  air,  so  that  the 
grouse  can  breathe  easily  under  the  snow. 

If  the  storm  change  to  rain,  forming  a  stiff  crust  above  him, 
he  has,  as  it  were,  a  glass  roof  to  his  house.  But  that  he  is  ever 
imprisoned  beneath  the  crust  and  dies  there,  as  we  so  often 
read,  there  is  little  likelihood.  I  have  never  known  a  case  that,  * 
when  followed  up,  proved  to  be  more  than  hearsay.  Wher- 
ever the  snow  is  deep,  'the  grouse  lives  easily  beneath  the 
crust,  wandering  at  will  beneath  it  in  search  of  food,  and  com- 
ing out  either  by  bursting  up  through  it  or  by  picking  an  exit  in 
some  place  where  the  crust  is  weak.  The  only  accident  I  ever 
knew  to  happen  to  a  grouse  in  winter  was  when  one  had  his 


A    WINTER  RESIDENT.  197 

tail  feathers  frozen  into  the  damp  snow  so  that  a  man  caught 
him  alive.  After  the  greatest  ice  storm  on  record  in  eastern 
Maine,  when  the  crust  would  bear  up  a  two-horse  team  and  the 
trees  were  bowed  to  the  ground  with  the  weight  of  the  ice 
frozen  upon  every  bough  and  twig,  the  grouse  were  budding 
as  usual  the  next  day.  But  they  had  changed  their  habits  to 
meet  the  emergency.  They  were  feeding  at  noon  instead  of 
at  night ;  and,  instead  of  sitting  quietly  to  eat,  they  flew  from 
perch  to  perch,  striking  the  limbs  with  such  force  as  to  rattle 
off  showers  of  crystal  fragments  that  fell  tinkling  on  the  hard 
crust  below.  Had  they  waited  till  their  usual  hour,  the  even- 
ing fronts  would  have  set  the  ice  immovably  upon  the  twigs, 
while  now  it  was  loosened  by  the  warm  noon  sun. 

It  may  seem  to  you  not  difficult  to.  discover  a  bird  nearly  as 
large  as  a  hen,  sitting  in  the  top  of  a  leafless  tree ;  but  I  think, 
indeed  I  know,  that  you  will  find  it  hard  to  see  the  budding 
grouse 'even  when  it  is  pointed  out  to  you,  and  that  you  will 
not,  without  aid  or  experience,  be  able  to  discover  half  of  those 
that  are  in  plain  sight.  Unexperienced  observers  see  the  grouse 
only  by  accident.  John,  James,  and  Jack  go  clattering  home 
from  town  at  sunset  with  rattling  whiffletrees  and  creaking 
bob-sleds,  shouting  from  team  to  team  about  the  March  meet- 
ing or  market  prices,  and  the  noise  does  not  startle  the  old 
cock  ruffed  grouse,  budding  almost  over  their  heads  as  they 
pass.  Ask  John  if  they  are  common,  and  he  will  tell  you: 
"  There  ain't  scursely  no  patridge  this  year.  I  ain't  seen  one. 
They  was  all  killed  off  by  last  winter's  snow."  The  birds  are 
there  but  he  does  not  know  how  to  see  them. 

When  sitting  still  the  grouse  blends  with  the  background 
against  which  he  is  seen,  or  else  he  resembles  some  inani- 
mate object  so  nearly  that  it  is  more  a  matter  of  instinct 
than  of  eyesight  to  pick  him  out  from  his  surroundings. 


198  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

At  a  distance,  against  the  red  sunset,  you  call  him  a  bunch 
of  dead  leaves;  close  at  hand,  if  back  to  you,  he  blends 
with  the  tree  trunk  behind  him ;  side  to,  the  dark  back  clings 
to  the  poplar  bark,  the  light  breast  melts  into  the  pale  blue 
sky;  front  to,  his  breast  appears  a  bit  of  white  birch  stem, 
while  the  dark  sides  take  the  color  of  the  thick  birch  twigs. 
Every  new  position  seems  to  hide  him  and  to  confuse  you. 
But  once  find  him  and,  like  the  hidden  animals  in  puzzle  pic- 
tures, he  becomes  so  plainly  seen  that  you  wonder  at  your  own 
blindness.  The  grouse  knows  very  well  when  he  is  detected, 
and  however  unsuspicious  he  may  have  been  before  he  felt 
human  eyes  fairly  fixed  upon  him,  he  is  apt  to  become  restless 
or  alarmed  soon  after.  Noise  he  does  not  mind.  Often  from 
the  windows  of  a  railroad  train  we  may  see  them,  undisturbed 
by  the  shriek  of  the  locomotive,  still  quietly  budding  while 
the  train  rattles  by.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  crack  a  stick,  or 
break  the  crust,  or  make  any  noise  in  approaching  them  and 
they  are  alert  at  once. 

The  winter  night  must  be  long  and  tedious  to  the  grouse, 
whether  he  spends  it  upon  the  ground  or  in  some  sheltered 
corner  among  evergreens.  As  he  drowses  in  the  muffle  of  his 
feathers,  he  hears  the  harping  of  the  north  wind  through  the 
thin  birch  twigs,  or  the  snap  and  squeal  of  frozen  trees,  crack- 
ing to  the  heart  under  the  knife  of  the  bitter  frost ;  he  hears 
on  the  crust  the  heavy  thump  of  the  white  hare's  feet  or  the 
ring  and  tinkle  of  the  wind-packed  drift,  telegraphing  the  wild- 
cat's long,  soft-footed  stride.  The  wings  of  his  arch  enemy, 
the  horned  owl,  brush  the  fir  bough  over  him,  or  he  wakes 
from  dreams  of  summer  to  smell  the  warm  breath  of  a  fox  so 
near  that  his  terror  causes  a  delay  that  is  almost  fatal. 

A  light  snowfall  would  have  left  all  the  night's  adven- 
tures written  in  bold  head-lines  on  nature's  daily  news- 


A    WINTER   RESIDENT.  199 

paper  —  the  fresh  fallen  snow.  A  shrewd  observer  can  read 
there  the  whole  story.  Where  the  trefoil  tracks  are  thickest 
was  the  scene  of  the  hare's  dinner  party,  —  poplar  on  the 
stick  was  the  pi&ce-de-resistance,  —  and  a  very  merry  party 
it  was  to  judge  by  the  number  of  tracks,  until  the  old 
horned  owl  swooped  down  and  seized  poor  Long-ears.  "How 
scared  the  others  were  can  be  read  in  these  tremendously 
long  leaps  toward  the  alder  thicket.  These  light,  triple- 
pointed  tracks  are  the  grouse's  where  he  alighted  and  walked 
a  few  feet  toward  that  little  fir  tree  with  down-hanging  limbs, 
which  stands  sheeted  in  snow  like  a  pointed  soldier's  tent. 
His  bedroom  was  the  slanting  lower  bough,  walled  and  roofed 
by  the  drift.  This  beaded  chain  straight  to  his  hiding  place 
was  the  fox's  track ;  that  long-paced,  round-pitted  track  the 
wildcat  made.  And  mark  the  broken  level  where  he  tossed 
the  snow  from  the  bough  above  him  as  he  burst  up  in  terror, 
and  the  wing-strokes  in  the  snow  where  he  struck  it  three  or 
four  times  before  he  could  gather  headway  and  rise  clear. 

So  it  is  written  in  the  snow.  Every  little  while  Nature 
prepares  a  new  edition  of  the  great  blanket  sheet  newspaper, 
powders  all  the  fields  afresh,  and  lets  the  creatures  of  the 
woods  write  again  the  story  of  their  woes  and  pleasures  among 
the  personals  and  in  the  society  columns.  There  it  is  reported, 
plain  as  if  in  print,  that  the  flying  squirrels  had  a  frolic  about 
the  hollow  apple  tree ;  that  the  mink  caught  a  trout  in  the 
open  water  below  the  mill-dam ;  that  the  red  squirrels  had  a 
sapping  party  in  the  maples,  and  ate  the  burrs  of  the  juni- 
pers for  dessert;  of  the  snow-bunting's  feast  of  weed-seed 
eaten  from  a  snow  table-cover ;  how  the  old  porcupine  has 
broken  out  his  lumber  road  between  his  den  in  the  rocks 
and  the  tall  hemlock;  and  the  shrew-mouse's  wanderings 
beneath  the  snow  were  not  so  crooked  and  out  of  the 


200  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

light  that  he  could  keep  them  out  of  the  papers,  for  this 
winding  ridge  marks  the  line  of  his  devious  tunnelling.  It 
is  not  hard  to  tell  who  is  out  of  doors  in  winter.  Whenever 
a  creature  puts  his  foot  down  in  the  new  snow,  he  signs  him- 
self with  an  unmistakable  mark.  Only  the  birds  do  not 
write  themselves  in  full,  but  they  leave  other  signs.  There 
are  the  quill  feathers  dropped  by  the  hawk  as  he  stripped 
them  from  his  prey ;  the  bark  hammered  off  by  the  wood- 
pecker ;  bud  scales  scattered  by  the  grosbeaks ;  fine  weed-seed 
set  adrift  by  linnets,  red-polls,  snow-buntings,  and  the  hardy 
tree  sparrow ;  the  grouse's  track,  like  a  line  of  feather- 
stitching  across  the  snow.  It  was  a  cock  grouse,  too  —  see 
the  line  where  he  dragged  his  wings,  as  he  spread  his  tail  and 
strutted  like  a  turkey  cock.  Long  life  to  you,  my  fine  fellow ! 
But  look  out  for  the  fox  and  for  the  man  with  a  gun ! 


THE   EAVES-SWALLOW:   HOW   SHE  CAME   AND 
BUILT   HER  NEST. 

YOUR  great-grandfather  probably  never  saw  an  eaves- 
swallow  until  he  was  a  man  grown.  As  you  pass  the  barn 
and  the  mother  swallow  puts  out  her  head  and  twitters  at 
you,  as  friendly  as  a  kitten,  showing  the  forks  of  the  light 
crescent  above  her  beady  eyes,  you  cannot  believe  that  this 
social  little  creature  was  not  here  to  make  friends  with  the 
Pilgrims  when  they  landed.  Yet  men  now  living  probably 
saw  the '  eaves-swallow  arrive  from  the  West. 

We  have  noticed  that  the  eaves-swallow  loves  open,  sunny 
places,  overhanging  cliffs,  and  good,  sticky  mud.  Now  a 
hundred  years  ago  the  whole  of  this  country  west  to  Ohio 
was  a  thickly  wooded  country  but  little  broken  by  clearings, 
and  with  no  extensive  natural  meadows.  The  clay  banks  were 
covered  by  forests  j  the  cliffs,  of  which  there  were  indeed 
enough,  were  under  the  shadow  of  great  trees,  and  the  whole 
aspect  of  it  to  a  bird  looking  down  from  a  height  must  have 
been  dark,  green,  and  gloomy,  quite  unlike  the  warm  sunshine 
over  the  Western  prairies.  There  great  rivers  flowed  through 
channels  cut  in  lofty  cliffs,  -and  receding  with  the  summer 
heat,  left  beds  of  mud  for  the  swallows  to  work  on.  Here 
there  was  nothing  to  attract  a  lover  of  wide  space  and  sunny 
plains.  So  the  eaves-swallows  from  times  unrecorded  fluttered 
and  digged  in  the  mud  banks  of  the  West  and  plastered  their 
nests  against  the  cliffs  above.  There  they  were  first  seen  by 
naturalists  ;  by  Forster,  who  gave  the  first  description  of  them 
in  1772 ;  by  Audubon,  who  notes  them  in  1815  at  Henderson, 

201 


202  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

Ohio,  and  in  1819  at  Newport,  Kentucky;  by  Major  Long 
and  Sir  John  Franklin,  who  observed  them  the  next  year, 
one  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  other  in  British  America. 
All  these  early  mentions  are  from  the  West  and  very  far  west 
for  those  days. 

But,  after  the  Revolutionary  War,  the  country  began  to 
grow.  Farms  spread  out  and  met  each  other,  while  the  forests 
vanished.  The  swallow,  soaring  overhead,  could  see  new  open 
spaces  to  the  East,  new  nesting-places  in  a  region  full  of 
better  cliffs  than  he  had  known,  and,  what  was  more,  full  of 
strange,  square  artificial  cliffs  that  were  hollow  inside,  and 
filled  with  men  and  children  and  cattle,  and  surrounded  by 
house-flies.  The  abundance  of  food  was  an  attraction.  Houses 
and  barns  were  a  new  experience  to  our  wild  Western  swal- 
lows; but  they  came  trustingly,  and  plastered  their  cradles 
up  under  the  eaves  of  the  new  barns  in  the  clearings,  as  much 
at  home  as  if  they  had  always  been  civilized.  Every  year 
the  farms  grew  and  the  swallows  spread  along  the  line  of' 
them  to  the  East,  where  houses  and  barns  were  still  more 
numerous,  where  hawks  seldom  dared  molest  them,  and  where 
flies  were  abundant.  By  the  middle  of  the  present  century 
they  were  established  in  all  the  New  England  states  as  com- 
mon residents. 

Though  so  numerous  where  they  are  found  at  all,  the  swal- 
lows are  very  irregular  in  their  distribution.  We  may  find 
several  species  in  one  town,  and  but  one  or  two  in  a  neighbor- 
ing village,  or  we  may  find  large  tracts  almost  unvisited  by 
swallows.  The  causes  for  this  are  various.  A  great  storm 
has  been  known  to  kill  nearly  all  the  swallows  resident  in 
certain  places  —  as  a  few  years  since  a  storm,  annihilated  the 
purple  martins  of  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  It  may -be  years 
before  a  region  thus  depopulated  will  be  stocked  again,  since  the 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW.  203 

young  birds  naturally  return  to  the  place  where  they  were  born. 
Or  the  English  sparrows  may  have  driven  out  the  swallows 
from  the  houses  erected  for  them,  as  has  happened  in  most 
of  our  larger  New  England  towns.  Or  suitable  nesting-places 
may  be  scarce  and  the  materials  for  building  wanting;  for 
each  species  of  swallow  has  some  peculiar  requirement. 

The  bank  swallow  not  only  desires,  but  must  have,  a  bank 
to  dig  in,  and  the  soil  must  be  not  too  stiff  for  him  to  excavate 
with  his  feeble  feet  and  not  so  sandy  as  to  cave  in  upon  him 
while  he  is  digging.  The  rough-winged  swallow,  which  less 
often  makes  his  own  hole,  likes  the  deserted  burrows  of  the 
kingfisher.  The  barn  swallow  wants  a  barn  whose  doors  stand 
open  or  whose  owner  has  kindly  made  little  openings  large 
enough  for  his  going  in  and  out.  The  blue-backed  swallow 
demands  snug  crannies,  natural  or  artificial,  and  often  builds 
in  old  woodpecker's  holes  or  in  the  gutters  of  old-fashioned 
houses.  The  eaves-swallow  wants  mud.  No  less  necessary 
is  a  suitable  place  on  which  to  plaster  it,  either  a  cliff  or  an 
overhanging  clay  bank,  or  the  sides  of  a  barn  or  house  with 
sheltering  eaves.  As  human  dwellings  are  now  far  more 
abundant  and  convenient  than  suitable  cliffs,  the  eaves-swallow, 
except  in  the  remotest  regions,  has  entirely  lost  the  original 
cliff-building  habit,  and  is  now  seldom  called  by  her  old  name 
of  cliff-swallow,  but  by  the  new  one  of  eaves-swallow. 

The  eaves-swallow  cannot  use  all  kinds  of  mud.  To  make  a 
nest  strong  enough  to  support  four  or  five  full-grown  young 
and  one  or  both  parent  birds,  requires  mud  that  is  adhe- 
sive and  tenacious,  that  is,  sticky  mud,  which  will  not  be 
brittle  or  crumbling  when  dry.  Clay  has  these  properties  ;  so 
the  eaves-swallow  and  the  brickmaker,  who  also  helps  to  build 
houses  out  of  mud,  work  together  on  the  clay  beds.  Nearly 
always  about  brickyards  you  will  see  eaves-swallows  if 


204  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

there  are  any  in  the  country.  The  brickmaker  bakes  his 
clay  by  fire;  but  the  swallow  hardens  hers  in  the  sun,  and 
makes  it  more  tenacious  by  mingling  with  it  rootlets  and  bits 
of  vegetable  fibre  to  hold  it  closer  together.  So  in  the  days 
of  ancient  Egypt,  when  men  built  of  sun-dried  brick,  they 
mingled  straw  with  the  clay  to  keep  it  from  crumbling. 

After  a  shower,  when  the  puddles  are  still  standing  in  the 
roads  or  have  dried  away  just  enough  to  leave  a  creamy 
stretch  of  mud  about  their  edges,  you  may  have  seen  a  cluster 
of  swallows  gathered  as  thick  as  butterflies  around  a  puddle 
and  not  unlike  them  in  appearance;  for  every  swallow 
balances  itself  on  its  tiny  feet  with  its  wings  raked  high  in 
air  and  fluttering  above  its  head.  The  whole  cluster  flickers 
its  wings  unceasingly,  and  when  one  rises  all  the  others  fly  too, 
and  they  travel  home  together.  Why  do  they  keep  their  wings 
up  so  ?  And  how  do  they  carry  their  mud  ?  The  first  ques- 
tion you  may  answer  for  yourself,  the  last  one  we  can  easily 
settle  by  looking  at  the  spot  they  have  just  left.  There  are 
the  little  pinholes  left  by  their  toe-nails,  and  in  .front  of  these 
are  creases  an  inch  long,  where  the  mud  was  taken.  Evidently 
they  take  the  mud  with  their  bills,  not  with  their  feet,  else 
we  should  not  see  the  toe  marks  so  distinctly.  It  is  equally 
evident  that  they  must  carry  the  mud  in  their  mouths,  for 
their  bills  are  too  small  to  hold  any  considerable  amount.  In- 
deed, if  you  watch  them  through  an  opera  glass,  you  will  see 
that  when  they  fly  home  their  throats  stick  out  like  a  chip- 
munk's when  his  pouches  are  full  of  nuts. 

They  come  and  go  in  companies  from  the  barn  to  the  mud- 
hole.  If  one  gets  his  mud  sooner  than  the  others,  he  flies 
about  once  or  twice  waiting  for  them  to  get  their  loads.  Per- 
haps he  does  not  get  his  full  load  at  one  place  and  rises  in  a 
circle  to  drop  again  and  finish  filling  his  throat  elsewhere. 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW.  205 

Usually  mates  do  not  go  together.  One  stops  by  the  nest  and 
rests  or  works  upon  it  while  the  other  flies  after  mud.  They 
stop  and  chat  a  moment  together  and  then  change  places,  the 
loaded  newcomer  remaining  to  plaster  and  build  up  the  home 
while  the  other  joins  the  outgoing  mud-seekers.  When  the 
nest  is  small,  one  bird  starts  out  just  as  the  other  arrives ; 
they  say,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  "  in  passing  and  waste  no  time ; 
but  when  it  is  nearly  finished,  and  time  is  not  so  important  to 
them,  they  sit  in  the  nest  and  converse  a  little  while.  The 
colony  I  am  speaking  of  went  about  five  hundred  yards  for  its 
mud,  —  that  is,  rather  more  than.quarter  of  a  mile,  — but  no 
doubt  they  sometimes  go  much  farther. 

The  bird  with  the  load  of  mud,  on  arriving  at  the  nest, 
rests  a  moment,  then  begins  retching  violently  and  ejects  a 
large  ball  of  mud,  which  it  adds  to  the  edge  of  the  nest.  This 
is  immediately  followed  by  one  or  two  smaller  mouthfuls. 
These  are  placed  more  carefully  than  the  first  and  often  seem 
to  be  mixed  in  the  bird's  mouth  before  they  are  deposited. 
Perhaps  some  sticky  saliva  is  worked  into  them  to  make  them 
adhere  more  closely  to  the  mass.  There  is  need  that  the  nest 
should  be  made  as  firm  as  possible,  for  when  the  young  are 
well  grown  it  must  support  a  considerable  weight.  With  us 
the  swallows  use  both  the  white  clay  and  the  blue  sea  clay. 
The  blue  marine  clay,  containing  seashells  and  sea  plants  and 
still  smelling  of  the  briny  ocean,  underlies  the  white  fresh-water 
clay,  which  was' deposited  later.  In  making  bricks  men  have 
used  up  the  white  clay  and  have  worked  down  to  the  blue  sea- 
deposit.  This  is  valueless  for  brick-making,  but,  oddly  enough, 
the  swallows  seem  to  find  it  just  as  good  as  the  other,  of  which 
they  can  get  any  amount  and  quite  as  near. 

One  might  watch  some  time  and  yet  not  see  the  swallow 
lay  the  foundations  of  her  house ;  and,  without  seeing  it  done, 


206  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

it  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  she  strikes  so  true  a  curve  in  set- 
ting her  first  course  of  mud  pellets.  She  may  not  always  use 
the  same  method,  but  I  have  seen  her  proceed  as  scientifically 
as  a  mason.  Coming  with  her  load  of  mud,  she  clings  to  the 
side  of  the  barn  with  both  feet  and  braces  herself  by  her  tail 
at  such  an  angle  as  to  begin  at  one  of  the  upper  "  corners  "  of 
the  nest.  Then  she  deposits  her  mud  in  little  dabs,  not  in 
large  lumps  as  she  lays  it  on  later  in  the  work,  turning  on  her 
feet  as  a  pivot  and  still  keeping  her  tail  fast  applied  to  the 
wall,  although  it  is  spread  quite  out  of  shape  by  the  turning 
of  her  body.  She  has  struck  out  a  circle,  her  feet  the  centre, 
her  bill  making  the  circumference ;  and  by  working  in  this 
way,  from  the  mud  carried  at  that  first  load,  she  lays  a  line  of 
pellets  nearly  half  around  the  circumference  of  the  intended 
nest.  I  do  not  know  whether  one  bird  is  architect  and  master 
mason,  and  the  other  merely  a  hod-carrier,  but  it  is  interest- 
ing to  see  that  they  know  the  use  of  the  compasses  and  that, 
rather  than  lose  their  line,  they  prefer  to  hang  in  a  cramped 
position,  sometimes  almost  head  down. 

Rude  as  the  work  looks  to  us,  these  little  masons  are 
skilful  builders.  They  must  also  be  trained  architects  or 
their  work  would  not  stand  the  strain  put  upon  it.  What 
do  they  allow  for  the  weight  of  their  families  ?  How  do 
they  calculate  the  effect  of  the  drought  and  sun  on  the 
dry  mud  ?  What  are  their  tests  for  the  adhesiveness  of 
their  clay  ?  These  are  their  masonic  secrets,  which  they 
never  divulge. 

Wherever  you  find  a  large  colony  of  eaves-swallows,  you 
will  find  conditions  most  favorable  for  mud-gathering.  As 
such  choice  places  are  not  abundant,  and  as  the  birds  are 
social,  large  communities  build  together.  Nearly  always 
their  nests  are  on  the  south  side  of  a  barn,  grouped  under  the 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW.  207 

overhanging  eaves.  In  one  case  I  know  of  their  building  on 
the  east,  and  in  another  on  the  north  side  of  a  barn,  but  this 
was  because  these  were  more  sheltered.  However,  the  north 
side  is  often  occupied  by  a  few  pairs  that  have  arrived  too 
late  to  take  up  a  house  lot  under  the  warmer  eaves.  Rather 
than  be  separated  from  their  friends,  they  will  build  on  an 
undesirable  homestead. 

Near  my  home  is  a  barn  that  has,  for  many  years,  been  the 
resort  of  a  large  colony  of  eaves-swallows.  The  owner  had 
wisely  protected  them,  and  they  visited  him  every  year  in  great 
numbers.  I  imagine  that  several  other  colonies  near  there 
are  made  up  of  swallows  of  this  original  community  forced  to 
emigrate  and  seek  a  home  elsewhere  for  lack  of  room  here.  In 
1898  there  were  seventy  nests  in  the  colony,  two  years  before 
there  were  one  hundred  and  eleven,  and  the  year  before  there 
were  one  hundred  and  sixty-five.  The  last  two  years  the  num- 
bers decreased,  and  this  year  the  whole  colony  has  removed. 

In  the  winter  of  1896,  the  English  sparrows  roosted  all 
winter  in  these  old  swallows'  nests  and  in  the  spring  built 
in  them,  intending  to  raise  their  broods  in  nests  they  had 
not  made.  But  when  the  swallows  came,  there  was  war. 
The  swallows  pulled  down  the  nests,  —  eggs,  young  ones,  and 
all,  —  and  fought  the  sparrows  till  they  were  glad  to  escape 
with  their  lives.  However,  the  north  side  of  the  building 
was  not  needed  by  the  swallows  that  year,  only  a  few 
pairs  building  there;  and  a  pair  of  sparrows  that  re- 
sisted the  onslaughts  of  these  few  came  off  victorious.  They 
occupied  an  old  swallow's  nest,  arid  a  pair  of  swallows  lived 
next-door  neighbor  to  them.  The  next  year  the  sparrows  again 
wintered  in  the  barn  and  tried  to  occupy  the  ground  for  their 
nesting,  but  bag  and  baggage  they  were  packed  off,  and  the 
swallows  gloried  in  their  complete  possession. 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW:   HOW  SHE  CHANGED  HEK 
STYLE   OF   BUILDING. 


WHEN  the  eaves-swallow  first  came  about  the  homes  of  men, 
she  built  a  different  nest  from  that  she  builds  to-day.  Her 
home  had  been  the  sides  of  cliffs,  not  so  smooth  and  straight 
as  the  sides  of  a  barn,  and  not  protected  by  any  overhanging 


ttH 

FIG.  45.    NESTS  OF  EAVES-SWALLOW. 

eaves.  The  roughness  of  the  rock  was  an  advantage  to  the 
bird,  as  it  helped  to  support  the  nest,  but  the  lack  of  cover  was 
a  disadvantage  so  great  as  to  require  some  special  provision ; 
for  if  the  rain  beat  into  the  swallow's  nest,  it  would  drown  the 
little  ones,  or  soak  the  nest  until  it  fell  from  the  cliff.  The 
mud  nest  of  the  swallow  is  water-tight,  and  rain  cannot  drip 
through,  as  it  might  through  a  nest  of  sticks.  So,  in  her  wild 
state,  the  eaves-swallow  built  a  covered  nest  of  a  form  commonly 
known  as  the  "  bottle-nosed  nest."  It  was  like  a  rudely  mod- 
elled, round-bodied,  short-necked  flask  of  mud,  stuck  against 
the  cliff  by  the  bottom  end,  so  that  the  bird  could  enter  by  the 
mouth  of  the  flask.  The  neck  of  the  bottle  was  a  little  passage- 

208 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW.  209 

way  that  led  to  a  round  and  comfortable  chamber.  Though 
not  pretty,  this  nest  was  very  ingenious,  and  it  answered  per- 
fectly the  swallow's  requirements. 

To-day  the  swallow  makes  a  very  different  nest.  It  is  a 
little  pocket  hung  against  the  wall  of  the  barn  close  under  the 
eaves,  partly  supported  by  the  side  of  the  barn,  partly  by  the 
roofing  eaves,  with  no  tunnel  to  enter  it  and  no  mud  roof. 
Instead  of  being  like  a  mud  bottle,  complete  but  for  the  bottom, 
which  the  rock  supplied,  the  commonest  form  to-day  resembles 
a  quarter  section  of  an  orange  peel  stuck  up  beneath  the  rafters 
and  entered  by  a  hole  scooped  out  at  the  top. 

Why  has  the  swallow  changed  her  architecture  within  fifty 
years  ?  All  the  older  swallows  built  mud  bottles  even  for 
years  after  they  frequented  barns.  Your  grandfather  will  tell 
you  that  when  he  was  a  boy  he  saw  nothing  else.  Yet  you 
perhaps  never  saw  one  in  your  life. 

The  swallow  is  a  bird  that  learns  much  by  experience. 
When  she  first  began  nesting  against  barns  she  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  A  modern  barn  presents  quite  a  different 
problem  from  a  cliff  of  rock  or  a  bank  of  hard  clay.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  much  smoother,  and  it  is  much  more  nearly 
perpendicular,  so  it  offers  no  natural  support  to  the  nest.  We 
speak  of  perpendicular  cliffs,  but  we  rarely  see  one.  The  partial 
support  that  the  slope  of  the  cliff  afforded  was  wanting  in  the 
barn.  Then,  the  rock  was  always  moist  while  the  barn  grew 
very  dry  in  summer.  The  moisture  that  condensed  upon  the 
rock  was  just  sufficient  to  keep  the  mud  from  growing  too  dry 
at  the  point  of  contact,  so  the  nest  held  securely.  But  the  dry 
boards  robbed  the  nest  of  its  natural  moisture,  and  the  rack- 
ing of  summer  tempests,  or  the  jar  of  heavy  carts  across 
the  barn  floor,  or  the  weight  of  the  birds  in  the  nest,  would 
often  send  the  whole  household  tumbling  to  the  ground. 


210  SOME  COMMON  LAND-.BIRDS. 

These  calamities  were  so  frequent  that  the  swallows  began 
to  consider.  They  liked  their  new  quarters  too  well  to  re- 
turn to  nesting  against  cliffs.  On  the  whole,  men  were  good 
to  them,  flies  were  abundant,  and  it  was  warmer  here  than  in 
the  wilderness.  So  they  remained ;  and  they  took  the  sensible 
way  of  remedying  their  distresses.  They  began  to  remodel 
their  nests.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  diminish  the  weight. 
They  cut  away  the  long,  bottle-nosed  entrance,  and  they 
altered  the  shape  of  the  body  of  the  nest.  Its  greatest  length 
had  been  perpendicular  to  the  side  of  the  barn,  so  that  gravity 
tended  to  drag  it  off ;  now  they  made  the  greatest  length  par- 
allel with  the  barn,  thus  exposing  the  structure  less  to  the  pull 
of  gravity,  and  giving  a  greater  surface  of  attachment.  No 
roof  was  needed  now,  for  the  eaves  formed  that.  No  en- 
trance passage  was  needed,  and  that  was  sacrificed.  The 
eaves-swallow's  nest  had  been  perfectly  adapted  to  its  new 
conditions. 

And  yet  there  arose  circumstances  wherein  the  new  house 
was  not  an  entire  success.  Once,  on  a  trip  in  the  Maine  woods, 
we  came  to  a  farm  ten  miles  from  the  nearest  house  and  about 
thirty  from  the  nearest  town.  It  was  kept  up  to  raise  hay 
for  the  lumbermen's  horses  in  winter,  and  had  a  fine  new  barn, 
with  the  eaves  finished  out  at  right  angles  to  the  sides.  Here 
a  colony  of  swallows  had  built  their  nests,  and  to  my  surprise 
they  were  the  old-fashioned,  bottle-nosed  structures  that  civil- 
ized swallows  had  abandoned  forty  years  before.  There  are 
two  possible  explanations  of  this.  Perhaps  these  backwoods 
swallows  had  never  learned  to  alter  their  nests ;  perhaps, 
as  they  were  outside  the  limits  of  civilization,  they  held  old- 
fogy  notions  of  letting  well  enough  alone,  or  perhaps  they 
had  some  method  in  their  work. 

This  barn  was  painted,  very  smoothly  finished,  and  much 


THE  EAVES-SWALLOW.  211 

more  difficult  to  build  against  than  the  ordinary  rough  struc- 
ture. The  eaves,  too,  were  at  right  angles.  If  we  make  some 
diagrams  we  can  see  what  shape  would  be  best  fitted  for  these 
conditions  and  for  the  old  style  of  barn.  Under  sloping, 
unfinished  eaves  the  bottle  nest  does  not  fit  well ;  a  pocket  is 
better.  But  under  square-finished  eaves  the  flask-shaped  nest, 
with  slight  modification,  fits  perfectly.  When  we  recollect  that 
mud  does  not  stick  to  smooth  paint  very  well,  we  shall  see  that 
under  eaves  of  this  sort  the  bottle  nest  gives  a  greater  support- 
ing surface  than  the  pocket.  The  nest  is  stronger  for  being 
of  that  shape.  It  is  more  work  to  make  it,  but  the  work  pays 
in  the  end.  Whether  these  swallows  built  their  nests  so 
because  they  were  wise,  or  because  they  did  not  know  any 
better,  we  cannot  tell ;  but '  we  shall  see  that  they  are  still 
capable  of  making  improvements  and  of  adapting  themselves 
to  varying  circumstances. 

The  bottle-nosed  nest  is  not  entirely  gone  yet.  There  has 
been  a  revival  of  it  in  a  colony  near  my  home  within  a  few 
years.  When  this  colony  grew  so  large  that  it  found  its  favor- 
ite barn  too  small,  there  was  a  great  demand  for  nesting-places 
among  the  swallows,  and  much  ingenuity  was  shown  in  building 
on  badly  shaped  house-lots.  This  is  an  old-fashioned  ba'rn  with 
sloping  rafters,  unfinished  beneath.  The  nests  not  only  follow 
the  side  of  the  barn  close  beneath  the  eaves,  but  they  extend 
down  both  sides  of  the  rafters,  and  are  placed  in  tiers  one 
below  the  other,  clinging  partly  to  the  wall  and  partly  to  the 
nests  above.  The  lowest  nests,  that  is,  those  nearest  the  edge 
of  the  eaves,  are  most  exposed  to  the  weather,  and  these  are 
often  built  with  bottle  necks.  The  nests  built  first  are  not  of 
this  type  because  the  birds  take  the  most  desirable  places  and 
build  the  nest  requiring  least  work.  But,  later  in  the  season, 
the  bottle  necks  appear. 


212  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

Once  I  saw  a  new  shape  of  nest  in  a  peculiar  situation. 
In  two  or  three  colonies  I  have  seen  the  same,  but  the  location 
for  it  is  so  unusual  that  I  can  only  regard  it  as  a  Mew  departure 
in  swallow  architecture.  The  site  chosen  in  these  cases  was 
just  above  the  window  frame  of  clapboarded  buildings.  The 
only  support  was  a  finish  about  an  inch  wide  around  the  win- 
dow and  what  little  additional  support  came  from  the  outward 
slant  of  the  clapboards.  Two  objects  evidently  must  be  held 
in  view,  —  sufficiently  large  attachment  surface  to  make  the 
nest  secure,  and  protection  from  the  weather.  The  first  was 
gained  by  making  the  nest  nearly  round  and  perhaps  five 
inches  in  diameter,  which  gave  it  a  wide  circle  for  its  point 
of  support.  The  last  was  provided  for  by  making  it  entirely 
covered,  the  entrance  being  by  a  small  round  hole  near  the 
centre.  The  nests  looked  like  big  mud  pies,  with  holes  in  them, 
stuck  against  the  sides  of  the  houses.  These  colonies  were 
small,  but  all  nested  in  the  same  way.  Sometimes  these  hemi- 
spherical nests  were  not  attached  to  the  side  of  the  building, 
but  were  placed  upon  one  another  till  they  formed  a  great, 
shapeless  mass  of  mud,  full  of  holes ;  for  even  in  this  swallow 
apartment-house,  every  nest  still  had  its  own  private  entrance. 

In  the  colony  near  my  home  I  see  scarcely  two  nests  alike. 
Each  one  is  fitted  to  its  own  place,  or  to  its  maker's  whim,  but 
there  is  a  reason  in  it.  Allowing  for  individual  preferences,  we 
find  that  they  fall  into  certain  well-marked  types.  There  are 
the  pocket  nests,  lying  entirely  under  the  eaves,  the  bottle-nosed 
nests  placed  near  the  edge  of  the  eaves  where  the  exposure  is 
greater,  and  the  hemispherical  nests  fully  exposed  on  the  face 
of  a  vertical  surface. 

It  has  taken  not  more  than  fifty  years  for  the  birds  to  learn 
all  this,  and  they  still  are  learning.  Men  never  began  to  learn 
so  much  about  building  houses  in  so  short  a  time. 


KNIGHTS   AND   CASTLES. 

THE    PURPLE    MARTIN. 

As  a  fighter  of  unimpeachable  courage,  address,  and  bold- 
ness that  never  takes  up  the  gauge  of  battle  without  reason, 
nor  lays  it  down  without  honor,  the  purple  martin  stands  peer- 
less. He  is  a  knightly  character,  amiable,  gentle,  courteous, 
and  wholly  devoted  to  his  lady  wife  whom  he  adores  and 
caresses  with  sweet  words;  but  very  valiant  toward  any 
enemy,  and,  though  unarmed  in  either  bill  or  claws,  both  of 
which  are  small  and  weak,  willing  to  engage  in  battle  with 
any  that  affronts  him.  Like  the  knights  of  old  he  wears  a 
steel-blue*  suit  that  shines  like  polished  metal  (but  his 
lady's  gown  is  white  beneath)  ;  and,  like  the  ancient  knight, 
he  prefers  to  live  in  a  castle. 

I  do  not  see  them  so  often  now,  but  in  my  childhood  ho 
carpenter  in  New  England  considered  that  he  had  finished  a 
barn  until  he  had  built  and  placed  upon  its  gable  a  martin 
box.  These  were  sometimes  elaborate  affairs,  and  occasionally 
were  so  large  that,  instead  of  being  perched  above  the  peak  of 
the  barn  on  a  short  pole,  they  were  erected  in  the  middle  of 
the  farmyard  upon  a  staff  of  their  own  as  large  as  a  small 
mast.  In  this  case  they  spun  a  weather-vane  upon  their 
roofs,  a  horse,  or  a  fish,  or  a  gaudy  cockerel  that  tried  to  run 
before  the  breeze,  and  could  do  nothing  but  turn  round  and 
round  as  it  whiffled  east  or  west.  In  this  case,  too,  they  were 
usually -not  snug  little  cottages,  but  pyramidal  palaces  of  many 
stories,  each  with  a  wide  balcony  in  front,  and  with  many  little 
round-topped  doors  opening  into  as  many  snug  chambers,  in 

213 


214  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

each  of  which  a  pair  of  martins  or  blue-backed  swallows 
nested.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  its  inaccessibility,  we  should 
call  this  a  swallow  hotel  instead  of  a  swallow  castle. 

How  these  martin  houses  came  to  be  so  generally  built, 
especially  in  scattered  farming  sections,  it  is  hard  to  say. 
Perhaps  the  early  settlers  had  some  real  fondness  for  the 
pretty,  social  bird ;  perhaps  they  were  reminded  in  him  of 
the  old  country  over  the  sea ;  but  quite  as  likely,  in  their 
sensible,  unsentimental  way,  they  encouraged  him  as  a  protec- 
tor to  their  chickens.  There  was  a  time,  with  the  woods 
creeping  up  to  the  edge  of  every  farm,  when  crows  and  hawks 
were  far  bolder  and  more  troublesome  than  to-day,  and  when 
a  colony  of  martins  not  only  gave  the  chickens  a  cry  of  danger 
which  they  understood,  and  brought  out  the  farmer  with 
his  gun,  but  joined  battle  themselves,  and  held  the  thief 
and  assassin  from  his  plundering  by  their  furious  assaults. 
The  farmer  of  the  old  times  was  not  particularly  intelligent 
or  sentimental  or  merciful ;  he  neither  knew  nor  cared  what  a 
bird  ate  so  long  as  it  did  not  eat  anything  he  could  sell ;  he  was 
not  the  least  grateful  to  the  martin  for  destroying  insects,  and 
he  tolerated  no  bird  or  beast  that  "  wasn't  some  good."  If  he 
encouraged  the  martin,  the  chances  are  that  he  was  merely 
retaining  him  as  a  sky  watchman  on  his  chickens.  The  lazy 
dog  got  no  bone  of  charity  in  the  old-time  farm-house,  and  the 
martin  paid  his  rent,  no  doubt,  in  hard  work.  But  for  some 
reason  he  had  a  house  provided  for  him. 

It  was  always  a  glad  sound  in  the  spring  to  hear  the  martins 
coming  back  with  loud  chirps  of  joy  as  they  saw  at  a  distance 
and  recognized  their  old  home.  "  There  it  is  !  Don't  you  see 
it  ?  Oh,  hurry,  hurry  up ! "  they  called  to  each  other,  and 
swift  and  straight  as  a  flight  of  cross-bow  bolts  they  sped  to 
it.  All  the  rest  of  the  day  they  would  sit  about  their  door- 


KNIGHTS  AND   CASTLES.  215 

ways,  talking  in  loud,  sweet  voices,  much,  above  their  usual  key. 
Their  excitement  and  joy  were  delightful  to  witness. 

In  time  they  began  to  think  of  nest  building.  The  old 
castles  underwent  a  spring  cleaning,  and  the  furniture  was 
thoroughly  renovated.  They  are  cleanly  birds,  and  love  sweet 
fresh  beds  and  pleasant  situations.  Do  you  recollect  how 
Shakespeare's  Scottish  general  in  the  play  of  "  Macbeth  "  men- 
tions this  daintiness  of  the  English  martin  —  a  bird  which  in 
habits  more  nearly  resembles  our  eaves-swallows  than  our 

martin  ? 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  ;  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendant  bed,  and  procreant  cradle. 
Where  they  much  breed  and  haunt,  Ihave  observed 
The  air  is  delicate." 

A  wonderfully  accurate  observation,  as  you  see,  for  that 
early  day,  and  an  excellent  naturalist  this  Banquo,  or 
Shakespeare. 

The  martin  is  equally  particular  about  her  bed.  Other 
swallows,  except  those  building  mud  nests,  gather  their 
material  on  the  wing,  but  the  martin  is  deliberate  and  critical 
in  her  choice.  Near  our  neighbor's  martin  house  there  once 
was  a  field  of  oats  bounded  by  a  high  board  fence  that, 
by  reason  of  a  convenient  knot-hole,  was  a  fine  place  for 
spies  and  eaves-droppers  to  birds'  private  business.  From 
behind  it  one  could  observe  the  martins.  In  the  spring  much 
of  the  oat-straw,  still  clean  and  bright,  was  left  among  the 
stubble,  and  to  it  the  martins  came  for  nesting-stuff.  The 
knight  and  his  lady  always  came  together  and  dropped  among 
the  stubble.  They  would  chat  a  little  together  softly,  and 


216  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

the  female  would  look  about  for  suitable  straws,  picking  one 
or  twc  long,  heavy  ones.  She  always  made  her  own  selection 
and  carried  her  own  load,  though  the  male  made  every  journey 
with  her.  Whether  she  discouraged  male  interference  and 
wished  to  choose  the  furniture  herself,  or  whether  he  escorted 
her  to  defend  her,  was  never  plain;  but  the  males  of  that 
community,  while  kind,  loving,  and  full  of  deference  to 
their  wives,  never  carried  any  burden.  The  nest  was  finished 
with  a  few  fresh  feathers ;  but  how  it  was  constructed  was 
one  of  the  secrets  of  the  martin  house  that  no  boy  ever 
was  reckless  enough  to  try  to  discover. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  martins  nested  in  holes  in  trees, 
and  in  Southern  California  they  still  do  that.  In  the  South, 
gourds  or  calabashes  were  often  hung  where  they  could  build  in 
the  hollow  shell.  And  it  seems  probable  that  at  some  time  they 
may  have  built  a  mud  nest  like  the  English  martin  and  our 
eaves-swallow;  for  there  is  a  record  that  a  pair  that  were 
troubled  by  water  dripping  from  the  eaves  of  their  house  and 
running  under  the  nest,  built  a  wall  of  mud  two  inches  wide 
and  six  long,  weighing  half  a  pound,  as  a  water-guard,  showing 
that  they  had  not  forgotten  the  mason's  trade. 

When  men  are  friendly,  the  martin  lives  without  fear.  Cats 
cannot  climb  to  his  castle,  hawks  cannot  overtake  him  on  the 
wing,  none  have  an.  enmity  against  him,  and  he  bears  ill  will 
to  none,  with  a  single  exception.  One  year,  when  he.  came 
back  from  the  South,  the  martin  found  the  muddy  tracks  of 
a  strange  bird  on  his  verandas,  his  castle  filled  with  rubbish, 
and  a  harsh-voiced  ragamuffin  in  possession.  The  English 
sparrow  had  moved  in.  And  the  English  sparrow  was  invited 
to  move  out  again  with  more  speed  than  ceremony.  How  the 
angry  martins  flew  at  him,  how  they  tossed  every  stick  of  his 
dirty  furniture  after  him,  and  raged  in  their  wrath  against  the 


KNIGHTS  AND   CASTLES.  217 

foreign  interloper !  The  sparrow  was  a  bully  and  a  tyrant  over  all 
the  other  birds,  but  he  learned  that  the  martins  were  his  masters. 

However,  when  winter  came  and  the  air  was  frosty,  the  empty 
martin  houses  were  too  inviting  to  be  resisted.  Back  the  spar- 
rows went,  and  who  would  leave  earlier  in  the  spring  than  he 
had  to  ?  They  always  forgot  to  leave  until  the  day  the  martins 
came  and  they  were  whipped  into  ignominious  retreat,  their 
nests,  eggs,  and  half-fledged  young  being  pitched  out  after  them. 

Nor  were  these  bloodless  encounters.  They  were  battles 
royal  to  be  sung  by  Homers  of  the  swallow  tribe,  each  hero 
called  by  name ;  for  here  was  foughten  field,  beleaguered 
castle,  the  storming  of  a  citadel,  the  rout  of  the  entrenched 
where  those  unarmed  and  unprotected  fought  against  stout 
and  well-armed  ruffians  sheltered  behind  walls  that  could  not 
be  breached  nor  broken.  The  best  and  most  knightly  tales 
we  can  remember  are  scarcely  too  grand  to  be  compared  with 
this  story  of  some  little  birds  fighting  for  a  toy  house  stuck 
up  on  a  pole.  I  am  wholly  serious  in  admiring  them.  These 
battles  lasted  two  or  three  days,  as  much,  in  proportion 
to  the  length  of  their  lives,  as  two  or  three  weeks  would 
be  to  a  man.  We  think  that  perhaps  the  pulls  and  pecks 
and  pinches  did  not  hurt,  they  being  birds ;  but  these 
were  battles  to  the  utterance ;  these  birds  killed  each  other. 
At  one  of  the  two  martin  houses  nearest  my  home,  one 
year  two  dead  sparrows  and  two  dead  martins  were  found 
on  the  ground  —  perhaps  a  fifth  of  all  those  engaged  in 
the  fight;  and  at  the  other  house  I  am  told  that  more  were 
killed,  though  not  more  in  proportion  to  the  contestants. 
The  martins  always  were  victorious.  The  only  time  when 
they  were  riot  completely  so,  was  once  when  the  colony  was 
so  small  that  they  could  occupy  only  the  upper  stories  of  the 
house,  when  they  permitted  the  sparrows  to  build  below  them. 


218  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

If  you  wish  to  know  how  dauntless  is  the  spirit  of  the  mar- 
tin let  me  tell  you  a  little  story.  For  many  years  a  colony 
of  martins  have  nested  in  a  house  on  the  gable  of  one  of  the 
tannery  sheds  in  Brewer,  Maine.  The  tannery  itself,  a  large 
wooden  structure,  stood  not  more  than  thirty  feet  from  the 
shed,  but  disconnected.  In  the  year  1897,  the  martins  returned 
on  the  twenty-second  of  April,  fought  their  annual  battle  with 
the  English  sparrows,  and  settled  down  for  a  few  days  before 
they  began  to  keep  house.  There  were  six  or  eight  in  the 
flock,  which  was  never  a  large  one.  On  the  first  day  of  May, 
just  at  dusk,  the  tannery  caught  fire.  The  martins  were 
asleep  for  the  night  and  must  have  been  awakened  by  the 
shouts  of  men  and  by  the  glare  and  crackling  of  the  fire. 
From  the  first  the  building  was  doomed,  though  the  firemen 
made  an  effort  to  save  it,  and  took  their  stand  on  the  wind- 
ward side  near  by  the  martin  house.  But  the  heat  there  was 
terrible,  and  they  were  forced  to  fall  back  to  a  much  greater 
distance.  Not  so  with  the  martins,  however;  it  was  their 
home,  and  they  would  fight  fire  as  they  had  fought  sparrows. 
They  never  retreated  from  it,  but  wheeled  round  it  with  the 
fierce  battle-love  of  war-eagles,  drenched  by  the  heavy  streams 
of  water  so  that  they  could  hardly  fly,  scorched  by  the  heat, 
but  heeding  neither  fire  nor  water,  the  roar  of  the  flames,  the 
rending  of  timbers,  the  puffing  of  engines,  nor  the  noise  of  the 
crowd.  They  had  no  nest  nor  eggs  to  protect,  but  they  never 
thought  of  deserting  the  house  they  had  fought  for  even  if  it 
cost  them  their  lives.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  their  house 
was  saved  and  that  they  bred  and  brought  up  their  families 
there,  and  sang  to  them  little  home-made  ballads  of  the  great 
events  of  the  year,  the  'fire  and  the  fight  with  sparrows,  a  sort 
of  swallow-saga  of  exultation. 


SOME  CAGED  PINE  GROSBEAKS. 

THE  pine  grosbeak  comes  down  from  the  North  only  in 
winter,  and  seldom  goes  far  south  of  New  England;  but  a 
little  account  of  a  pair  that  I  held  captive  for  a  time,  may 
give  some  hints  of  what  can  be  learned  from  watching  a 
caged  bird. 

On  those  winters  when  food  is  scarce  in  the  north  the  pine 
grosbeaks  come  south  in  large  flocks  to  eat  the  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash  and  black  alder  and  the  buds  of  maple,  ash,  and 
pine  trees.  Our  first  notice  of  their  coming  is  hearing  their 
wild,  sweet  whistle  overhead,  or  seeing  the  ground  strewn 
with  the  scales  of  leaf -buds,  which  they  drop  in  feeding. 
They  are  the  largest  of  our  tamer  winter  birds,  and  look  like 
a  magnified  sparrow,  being  about  the  size  of  a  robin  and  more 
heavily  built.  Though  they  vary  in  color,  from  gray  with  a 
yellow  rump  and  crown  in  the  female  and  young,  to  a  rosy  red 
all  over  in  the  adult  male,  all  ages  and  sexes  have  two  broad 
white  wing-bars  which  give  an  easy  mark  of  identification. 

During  the  great  flights  of  grosbeaks  in  1897,  four  were 
brought  me  alive,  and  for  a  few  hours  all  were  put  into  one 
cage.  In  this  interval  one  of  them  lost  all  the  long  quills 
from  both  wings,  either  by  self-injury  or  by  malice  on  the  part 
of  the  others.  The  poor  fellow  could  not  fly,  and  his  wings 
needed  attention,  so  it  was  decided  to  keep  him  and  one  com- 
panion, and  to  release  the  others.  The  birds  were  so  near 
alike  in  color  that  the  sexes  could  not  be  distinguished,  but 
the  gentlest  tempered  bird  was  selected  to  remain  with  this 
one,  which,  by  his  determined  resistance,  his  fierce  biting,  and 
his  loud  snapping  of  the  bill,  was  supposed  to  be  a  male. 

219 


220  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

The  pair  were  put  in  a  large  parrot  cage  with  a  swinging  ring 
and  lived  there  for  six  weeks,  apparently  happy  and  certainly 
well  fed.  They  were  very  much  pleased  with  the  swinging 
ring,  and  became  quite  expert  in  leaping  into  it  without  losing 
their  balance,  although  I  often  altered  the  position  of  the 
perches  below,  so  they  must  strike  the  ring  at  a  new  and 
inconvenient  angle.  They  swung  in  it  singly  and  together,  and 
at  night  always  slept  in  it  side  by  side  —  a  forest  habit,  no 
doubt,  of  sleeping  in  a  high  place  for  safety.  At  first  they 
slept  soundly,  with  their  heads  tucked  under  their  wings ;  but 
frequent  interruptions  and  night  alarms  caused  them  either  to 
give  up  the  habit  entirely  or  to  sleep  much  more  lightly,  for 
after  a  few  days  we  never  caught  them  napping. 

They  ate  apples,  both  fresh  and  the  "frozen-thawed"  from 
the  trees,  preferring  the  seeds,  but  eating  a  portion  of  the 
pulp  also.  The  berries  of  the  mountain  ash  they  ate  eagerly, 
rejecting  most  of  the  pulp.  They  loved  the  terminal  buds  of 
fir  and  maple  twigs,  and  one  day,  when  loose  in  the  room, 
cropped  their  mistress's  carnations  and  azaleas  of  every  leaf- 
bud.  Bird-seed  formed  their  principal  diet  after  the  first  two 
weeks,  and  they  showed  a  decided  preference  for  canary  seed. 
When  fed  the  mixed  hemp,  rape,  millet,  and  canary  seed  they 
appeared  to  reject  all  but  the  latter.  At  first  they  carefully 
shelled  all  their  bird-seed,  as  they  do  their  apple-seeds,  and 
the  cage  was  littered  with  the  chaff ;  but  toward  the  end  of 
their  stay  they  seemed  to  learn  that  there  was  no  necessity 
for  this  extra  work,  and  few  husks  were  found  on  the  floor. 
When  the  fresh  seed  was  first  put  in,  the  male  usually  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  seed-dish  and  made  his  little  wife  watch 
him  while  he  enjoyed  himself.  When  their  hunger  was  satis- 
fied, and  they  were  eating  for  the  fun  of  it,  they  would  take 
several  seeds  in  their  mouths  and  hop  up  on  the  perch,  where 


SOME  CAGED  PINE  GROSBEAKS.  221 

they  would  chew  each  separately  under  the  corner  of  their 
beaks.  Gravel  they  ate  eagerly  and  seemed  to  need  fre- 
quently, but  cuttle-bone  they  either  did  not  desire  or  its  use 
they  could  not  understand. 

They  were  exceedingly  particular  about  their  water,  drank 
much  if  it  was  good,  but  went  thirsty  rather  than  touch  any 
that  had  stood  in  the  cage  over  night.  A  bath  was  their  great- 
est pleasure,  and  they  threw  the  spray  in  such  quantities  as  to 
wet  the  floor  for  three  feet  around  the  cage.  B*ut.  the  bath 
must  be  fresh  or  they  would  go  without  it.  They  seemed  to 
need  it  to  keep  their  feathers  trim.  For  the  first  week  it  was 
not  offered  them  because  we  knew  that  in  winter  they  could 
get  no  water  to  bathe  in  but  dusted  themselves  in  snow ;  yet 
when  given  them  regularly  the  bath  produced  an  immediate 
improvement  in  their  personal  appearance.  It  was  noteworthy 
what  a  difference  life  indoors  made  in  their  figures.  They 
always  look  to  be  stout,  puffy  birds  when  wild,  because  they 
fluff  out  their  feathers  so  as  to  make  a  loose,  thick  garment 
that  holds  the  heat  of  the  body ;  but  in  captivity,  needing  no 
extra  warmth,  they  laid  their  feathers  flat,  and  became  trim 
and  elegant  in  figure,  rather  slenderer,  it  seemed  to  me,  than 
most  birds. 

The  little  grosbeaks  became  very  tame.  Though  they  would 
not  willingly  allow  us  to  handle  them,  they  were  never  afraid 
of  any  grown  person.  Of  a  child  they  were  suspicious ;  in  the 
presence  of  the  baby  they  showed  positive  alarm.  The  dog 
terrified  them ;  but  the  sight  of  a  cat  made  them  frantic,  and 
often  their  cries  of  terror  would  draw  one  of  us  from  another 
room  in  time  to  see  a  strange  cat  slink  away  from  the  low  ve- 
randa windows.  This  excessive  fright  at  a  cat  was  at  least 
partly  explained  by  a  narrow  escape  they  had  one  day  from  a 
neighbor's  pussy,  which,  having  the  liberty  of  the  house,  got 


222  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

into  the  room  where  they  were  and  with  her  claws  tore  the 
neck  of  the  little  female.  But  why  should  they  have  been 
afraid  of  the  baby  unless  they  classed  four-footed  beasts  and 
creeping  things  together  ? 

When  first  captured  they  had  two  notes,  —  their  low,  pleas- 
ant, conversational  talk  with  each  other,  and  their  shrill  alarm 
note,  which  they  uttered  when  they  saw  flocks  of  their  mates 
outside,  a  peculiar,  piercing  call,  fit  for  the  company  of  pine 
trees  and  a  'home  in  the  North.  The  last  of  February  the  male 
began  to  sing,  a  little  whispering  warble,  sweet  and  ventrilo- 
quial,  performed  with  the  bill  shut,,  and  so  hard  to  be  located 
that  when  the  birds  were  not  more  than  a  foot  away  it  was 
difficult  to  tell  which  was  the  singer.  Yet  through  a  closed 
door  the  song  could  be  heard,  apparently  just  as  loud.  It  is 
probable  that  the  male  would  have  improved  in  his  singing  in 
a  few  weeks,  for  his  nearest  relatives  are  good  songsters,  and 
he  himself  is  not  without  a  reputation. 

We  were  now  able  to  be  sure  that  the  singer  was  a  male, 
for,  during  the  few  weeks  that  the  birds  had  been  with  us,  one 
of  them  had  been  slowly,  but  unmistakably,  turning  red.  Had 
this  one  been  alone  we  should  hardly  have  believed  the  change 
had  occurred ;  but,  knowing  that  in  the  beginning  both  were 
alike,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  male's  color  had  spread  and 
deepened,  had  suffused  his  breast  and  crept  down  his  back 
and  brightened  on  his  head  and  rump  till  these  parts  were  no 
longer  yellow,  but  a  coppery  red. ,  And  yet  the  change  had 
come  about  without  the  loss  of  a  single  feather,  except  the 
primaries  torn  out  in  battle  and  two  tail  feathers  broken  by 
the  cage.  If  new  feathers  grew,  we  did  not  see  them,  though 
the  birds  were  often  in  our  hands.  Here  was  a  case  of  "  color- 
change  without  moult,"  a  subject  of  great  interest  to  scientists 
and  not  yet  fully  explained. 


SOME  CAGED  PINE  GROSBEAKS.  223 

Another  point  worth  notice  was  that  both  of  them  were  right- 
handed.  Whenever  they  clung  to  the  bars  of  their  cage,  the 
right  foot  was  put  lowest  down  to  bear  the  strain;  and  not  only 
was  this  seen  by  constant  observation  to  be  their  preference, 
but  it  was  proved  by  the  tails,  which  became  very  much  worn 
upon  the  left  side,  where  they  rubbed  against  the  bars.  A  lady 
who  once  kept  a  wild  swamp  sparrow  captive,  noticed  that  it 
always  wet  its  food  with  its  right  foot  and  became,  lame  in  its 
left  hip  in  consequence  of  the  strain.  Still,  it  -is  a  matter  of 
dispute  whether  animals  are  naturally  right-handed.  The 
parrot,  it  is  said,  is  left-handed.  Can  you  guess  why  ?  Do 
you  know  whether  it  is  so  ? 

After  a  few  days  the  little  grosbeaks  became  very  tame. 
They  would  allow  no  one  to  fondle  them,  and,  seemed  to  have 
no  favorites  among  their  attendants ;  but  they  were  not  at  all 
timid,  and  could  be  given  the  liberty  of  the  room  in  which 
they  were  kept  for  an  hour  or  two  every  day.  There  were 
some  hard  knocks  against  the  window-panes  before  they 
learned  that  glass  is  solid,  although  so  clear,  but  they  learned 
the  lesson.  Nor  did  they  seem  anxious  for  their  liberty. 
After  an  hour  or  two  of  freedom  they  would  go  into  their  cage, 
or  allow  themselves  to  be  caught  in  the  hand.  There  was 
something  so  brave  and  trustful  in  the  way  they  would  look 
up  with  their  clear  hazel  eyes,  as  if  to  say,  "  You  don't  mean 
to  hurt  us ;  we  are  sure  you  don't."  All  this  time  the  wing- 
quills  of  the  male  had  been  growing,  and  he  was  now  able  to 
fly  as  well  as  ever.  They  were  great  pets,  and  we  tried  to 
make  them  happy.  Our  last  attempt  succeeded  so  well  that  it 
ends  this  story ;  for  there  came  a  day  in  March  when  to  do 
them  a  pleasure  they  were  taken  out  on  the  veranda  for  an 
airing.  The  bottom  of  the  cage  dropped  out,  and  the  male, 
wild  for  the  freedom  of  the  fresh  air,  leaped  from  his  cage, 


224  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

and  with  joyful  cries  flew  to  the  top  of  the  highest  maple. 
His  little  mate  did  not  attempt  to  follow  him,  but  a  gentle 
hand  drew  her  out  a,nd  made  her  feel  the  breeze  beneath  her 
wings,  when  she  joined  her  mate,  and  neither  ever  came  back 
to  thank  us  for  six  weeks'  entertainment. 

This  simple  story  contains  nothing  that  any  child  might  not 
observe ;  but  it  shows  that  something  may  be  learned  even 
from  caged  -birds,  and  it  happens  to  illustrate  three  disputed 
points  in  science :  whether  wild  birds  sleep  with  their  heads 
beneath  their  wings,  whether  they  are  naturally  right-handed, 
and  the  color  change  without  a  moult.  However,  unless  some 
accident,  like  that  to  our  pine  grosbeak,  disables  a  bird,  no  wild 
bird  should  ever  be  kept  in  captivity  unless  it  has  perfect 
freedom,  like  a  tame  crow  or  blackbird. 


Facing  page  225. 


FIG.  48.  — CUCKOO. 


THE  BIRD   INVISIBLE. 

THE    CUCKOO. 

WHO  knows  Cuckoo  ?  Listen !  Kow-kow-kow-kow,  you 
hear  it  in  the  apple  tree,  and  kow-kow-kow-kow  off  by  the 
brookside,  and  up  along  the  fringe  of  willows  kow-koiv-kow 
just  as  loud  as  before. 

The  farmer's  boy  snaps  together  his  jack-knife  and  sets  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  grumbling  that  the  old  turkey  is 
straying  again,  and  the  fox  in  the  swamp  will  get  him  as  he 
richly  deserves.  He  never  suspects  that  it  is  not  the  turkey 
at  all  but  a  cuckoo  leading  him  off  into  the  wet  and  oozy 
thickets.  Perhaps  he  thought  she  shouted  out  her  name 
as  clearly  as  the  little  birds  on  the  Swiss  clocks  that  sing 
cuck-oo,  cuck-oo,  with  the  hours;  perhaps  he  thought  that 
any  bird  which  the  poets  had  praised  so  highly  ought  to  be 
able  to  sing  at  least  a  little.  This  hoarse  kow-kow-kow  is 
nothing  but  a  noise,  and  a  very  harsh  one  at  that;  so  that 
it  was  an  apt  retort,  as  well  as  a  witty  one,  when  Shake- 
speare's heroine  declared, — 

"  He  knows  me  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 
By  the  bad  voice.'''1 

That  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  to  recognize  Cuckoo.  Not  only 
is  her  voice  bad,  except  when  crooning  her  soft  coo-coo-coo, 
coo-coo,  but  it  is  unmistakable,  and  usually  it  is  the  only 
warning  of  her  presence.  She  flits  and  calls  and  wanders 
from  bush  to  tree,  restless  as  a  ghost  and  nearly  as  invisible, 
but  proclaiming  her  whereabouts  by  her  loud  and  frequent 
Q  225 


226  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

calling.  But  long  shall  you  watch  before  you  catch  her 
crying  out  her  kow-kow-kow.  Let  her  come  upon  you  lying 
in  the  grass  and  there  is  not  a  more  silent  bird  anywhere 
than  our  shy,  soft-mannered  cuckoo.  She  will  regard  you 
shrinkingly  a  moment,  and  then  fade  away  before  your  eyes. 
Not  a  rustle  of  a  leaf,  not  a  stir  of  a  twig,  not  a  flip  of  wings, 
but  a  ghostly  vanishing.  The  slender,  soft-colored,  long-tailed 
bird  that  looked  at  you  out  of  a  clear  hazel  eye  evaded  you  just 
at  the  moment  when  you  winked  or  glanced  aside.  Perhaps 
she  merely  hopped  a  little  way  and  drew  herself  into  some 
uncouth  position,  as  long  and  slender  as  a  dead  apple-branch ; 
or  perhaps  her  hazy  colors  hid  her ;  or  perhaps  she  removed 
quite  away  from  you,  and  you  hear  her  kow-kow-kow  from 
another  leafy  cover. 

You  must  not  expect  a  closer  acquaintance.  Cuckoo  is  so 
shy,  so  quiet,  so  unwilling  to  be  looked  at,  that  unless  you  have 
a  good  glass  or  unlimited  patience  you  must  be  satisfied  with  a 
glimpse  of  the  soft  brown  back  and  the  long,  graduated  tail.  In 
time  you  will  learn  her  peculiar  flight,  her  size,  and  her  notes 
so  well  that  even  a  half  glimpse  will  be  all  you  need  to  be  cer- 
tain of  her  neighborhood. 

The  two  kinds  of  cuckoos  which  we  have  in  this  country  look 
much  alike,  but  they  differ  enough  in  their  haunts,  their  habits, 
and  their  call  notes  to  be  quite  readily  distinguished,  even 
without  a  sight  of  the  black  on  the  tail  which  marks  the 
yellow-billed,  and  the  red  stripe  around  the  eye  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  black-billed  cuckoo.  In  many  parts  of  the 
country  both  species  are  found ;  in  some  but  one  is  common, 
and  the  other  rare  or  wanting  altogether.  Do  you  know 
whether  both  sorts  live  near  you  ?  Which  do  you  have  ?  How 
do  you  tell  them  apart  ?  If  you  have  ever  heard  them  called 
rain  crows,  as  they  are  in  many  places,  perhaps  you  can  tell 


THE  BIED  INVISIBLE.  .227 

us  why  they  get  the  name.  Do  not  look  for  the  black-billed 
cuckoo  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  nor  for  the  yellow-billed 
at  the  farthest  northern  limits  of  the  country,  for  it  is  rare 
north  of  Massachusetts.  In  the  farthest  South  there  is  some- 
times seen  a  third  kind  called  the  Mangrove  cuckoo.  When 
both  kinds  are  found  in  the  same  region,  the  black-billed  will 
be  most  commonly  detected  along  wet  lowlands,  where  a  little 
growth  of  willows  or  alders  borders  a  meadowy  rivulet,  while 
the  yellow-billed  cuckoo  haunts  the  dry  upland  pastures,  with 
scattered  tufts  of  shrubby  trees  and  near  access  to  taller, 
thicker  growth. 

Some  day  you  may  find  Cuckoo's  nest.  Cuckoo  is  a  poor 
nest  builder,  so  you  may  easily  guess  whose  house  it  is 
even  if  the  owner  is  not  home.  "As  a  nest  builder,"  says 
one  observer,  "the  cuckoo  is  no  genius,  or  if  a  genius  he 
belongs  to  the  impressionist  school.  The  nest  is  but  a  raft  of 
sticks  flung  into  the  fork  of  a  bough."  If  you  find  such  a  nest, 
—  so  shallow  that  the  pale,  blue-green  eggs  may  easily  be  rolled 
out  if  the  wind  blows  hard,  —  thrust  into  the  side  of  a  quickset 
hedge,  or  on  the  low  bough  of  an  evergreen,  there  is  little  doubt 
it  is  Cuckoo's.  She  usually  further  advertises  herself  by  twist- 
ing a  piece  of  rag  into  her  structure,  just  as  the  red-eyed  vireo 
always  uses  a  piece  of  hornet's  nest,  and  the  Baltimore  oriole 
twists  strings  into  her  woven  pocket,  and  the  great-crested  fly- 
catcher wreathes  a  snakeskin  about  her  nest  rim. 

It  is  not  wise  to  go  too  near  Cuckoo's  nest,  nor  to  visit  it 
often.  She  is  the  most  suspicious  of  mothers,  and  often  deserts 
her  nest  when  she  finds  that  it  has  been  discovered.  Instead, 
keep  away  from  the  pretty  green  eggs  and  the  ugly  black  babies 
until  some  day  you  see  Madam  Cuckoo  bringing  caterpillars  to 
what  you  think  are  little  Plymouth  Rock  chickens.  Then  you 
may  watch  her  if  you  will.  Naturally  you  will  be  rather  aston- 


228  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

ished  till  you  reflect  that,  in  bird-land,  to  feed  a  young  bird  and 
to  worry  over  it  always  means  either  an  own  child  or  an  adopted 
one.  These  little  short-tailed,  mottled  slate-and-white  nestlings 
are  certainly  the  own  children  of  our  elegant,  graceful,  long- 
tailed  cuckoo.  In  time  they  will  outgrow  the  difference  and 
will  look  like  her. 

There  have  been  all  kinds  of  stories  about  Cuckoo.  Some 
say  that  she  lays  her  eggs  in  other  birds'  nests,  and  some  that 
she  sucks  eggs  to  make  her  voice  clear.  But  we  all  know  that 
she  is  as  hoarse  as  a  crow,  and  the  best  naturalists  to-day, 
though  they  admit  that  they  suspect  her  of  egg-stealing,  do 
not  say  that  they  ever  caught  her  at  it.  All  that  I  am  sure 
of  is  that  the  other  birds  call  her  very  bad  names  and  try  to 
drive  her  away.  This  looks  suspicious,  but  proves  nothing. 
Of  the  other  charge  there  is  rather  more  evidence,  but  even 
that  is  not  wholly  against  Cuckoo.  She  makes  her  own  nest  and 
takes  care  of  her  own  brood,  as  a  rule.  Occasionally  she  lays 
an  egg  in  some  other  bird's  nest,  but  so  rarely  that  you  are 
never  likely  to  see  it,  or  at  most  only  in  a  certain  particular 
case.  The  black-billed  cuckoo  is  rather  prone  to  lay  her 
eggs  in  her  yellow-billed  cousin's  nest,  and  yellow-bill  just 
as  frequently  returns  the  compliment.  You  can  tell  the  eggs 
apart  by  their  color.  But  who  cares  ?  Aren't  they  all  cuckoos  ? 
And  who  cares  if  the  cuckoo  drops  an  egg  now  and  then  into 
the  nest  of  some  other  bird  ?  A  young  cuckoo  is  as  useful 
as  any  other  young  bird,  and  is  no  more  trouble  to  his  foster 
parents  than  their  own  birdlings. 

The  most  important  fact  about  Cuckoo  is  that  she  is  our 
greatest  caterpillar  hunter,  and  one  of  the  best  friends  the 
fruit  grower  has.  When  the  ugly  tent  caterpillars  have 
twisted  their  webs  about  the  ends  of  the  apple-tree  boughs, 
and  are  beginning  to  crawl  down  the  trunk  in  an  endless 


THE  BIRD  INVISIBLE.  229 

procession,  she  is  there  to  make  war  upon  them.  When  the 
canker-worms  are  cutting  up  the  leaves  till  the  trees  are  stark 
naked,  then  Cuckoo  comes  to  fight  them.  She  cannot  eat  them 
all,  but  she  abates  the  nuisance  even  at  its  worst ;  and  more 
often  than  we  know  for  she  nips  the  devastation  before  it  has 
grown  great.  The  cuckoos  are  almost  the  only  birds  that  will 
touch  a  hairy  caterpillar,  but  they  eat  the  hairy,  spiny  sorts  by 
the  hundreds  at  a  meal.  Being  such  a  quiet,  shy  bird  she  is 
present  oftener  than  we  think  for;  and,  working  without  pay 
and  without  vacations,  she  is  not  a  bad  bird  to  keep  around 
the  farm  and  garden. 


A  DEAD   BEAT.1 

i 

THE    COW-BIRD. 

THE  habit  of  laying  its  eggs  in  other  birds'  nests,  which 
we  remarked  had  been  a  few  times  observed  in  our  American 
cuckoos,  and  which  is  the  regular  habit  of  the  European 
cuckoo,  has  a  name  of  its  own.  It  is  called  parasitism. 

Parasite  is  an  old  Greek  name  for  one  who  eats  at  another 
man's  expense.  Nowadays  we  call  such  a  person  a  dead  beat. 
Any  animal  that  does  not  work  for  its  own  living,  or  that 
expects,  some  other  animal  to  bring  up  its  young,  is  called 
a  parasitic  animal.  Our  cuckoos  are  only  occasionally  para- 
sitic, and  then  without  doing  any  harm;  but  we  have  another 
group  of  birds  that  are  dead  beats  of  the  lowest  class. 

Little  can  be  said  in  favor  of  our  common  cow-bird.2  Not 
only  does  he  shirk  the  labor  of  building  a  nest,  and  of  caring 
for  his  young,  but  the  youngsters  themselves  are  worthless 
fellows,  and  they  always  cause  the  death  of  all  the  young 
in  the  nest  of  their  foster  parents.  So  every  cow-bird  that 
you  see  is  responsible  for  the  death  of  four  or  five  useful  and 
pretty  insectivorous  birds,  while  he  himself  is  good  for  nothing 
except  eating  a  few  bugs  and  a  little  weed-seed.  The  cow- 
bird  is  not  only  useless  and  morally  disreputable,  but  he  is 
actually  criminal. 

1  The  facts  concerning  cow-birds  are  principally  drawn  from  Major  C.  E. 
Bendire's  "Life  Histories  of  North  American  Birds";   the  theory,   except 
the  comparison  with  cuckoos,  from  Sclater  and  Hudson's  work  on  the  "  Birds 
of  the  Argentine  Republic." 

2  The  cuckoo  is  often  called  cow-bird,  too,  from  its  note ;  but  the  true  cow- 
bird  is  the  cow-blackbird,  shiny-eye,  clodhopper,  lazy  bird,  or  buffalo  bird  of 
different  localities. 

230 


FIG.  49. —COW-BIRD. 


Facing  page  230. 


A  DEAD  SEAT.  231 

But  even  if  we  do  not  approve  him,  we  may  study  him  with 
profit.  Naturalists  agree  that  there  is  a  great  deal  about  his 
crooked  ways  that  is  not  yet  known  or  explained,  and  that  the 
study  of  the  cow-bird  is  one  of  the  best  fields  open  to  observers. 

We  need  have  no  trouble  in  identifying  him.  He  gets  his 
name  from  his  fondness  for  cattle,  in  whose  company  he  is 
often  seen,  sometimes  even  riding  on  their  backs  to  pick  up 
the  vermin  on  them.  (But  other  birds,  like  the  ani  and 
Brewer's  blackbird,  also  do  the  same.)  His  color  is  a  good 
mark.  The  male,  in  spring,  is  a  glossy  black,  with  brown  head 
and  shoulders  ;  the  female,  dull  brown.  But  his  note  is  his 
most  unmistakable  characteristic.  It  has  something  of  the 
reedy  vibrancy  of  the  other  blackbirds,  but  more  harshness ; 
and  it  is  uttered  with  strange  contortions  of  his  body,  with 
wings  and  tail  quivering,  head  depressed,  and  throat  swelled 
out  —  an  effect  wholly  disproportioned  to  the  harsh  and  brassy 
"  chuck-see-e "  which  he  finally  jerks  out.  A  flock  of  these 
birds  in  a  tree-top  sounds  like  a  congregation  of  rusty  door- 
hinges. 

A  curious  fact  about  the  cow-birds  is  that  the  males  so 
outnumber  the  females  that  there  are  usually  three  or  four  to 
a  single  female.  And  instead  of  a  large  crop  of  old  bachelors, 
she  goes  with  all  of  them.  Polyandry  —  having  many  husbands 
—  this  rare  habit  is  called.  Polygamy  —  that  is,  being  married 
to  many  wives,  like  our  barnyard  cock  —  is  the  reverse  of 
this.  It  is  rather  a  curious  observation 'that  in  a  polygamous 
society  the  females  have  to  work  very  hard ;  but  in  a  poly- 
androus  society  they  do  not  work  at  all.  Perhaps  this  may 
account  for  the  lazy  ways  into  which  these  birds  have  fallen. 

There  are  twelve  species  of  these  birds  in  the  New  World 
and  none  (except  rarely  one  of  them)  is  known  to  build  a  nest, 
though  one  South  American  species  raises  its  own  brood  in 


232  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

the  nests  built  by  other  birds.  The  three  species  occurring 
in  the  limits  of  the  United  States  neither  build  nor  care  for 
their  young.  This  carelessness  is  the  more  notable  because 
the  blackbirds,  as  a  rule,  build  very  respectable  nests,  and 
their  relatives,  the  orioles,  are  among  the  most  famous  weavers 
in  the  world.  Why  is  it  that  a  single  genus  has  entirely  given 
up  the  habit  of  nest  building  ? 

The  female  cow-bird  lays  an  unending  succession  of  eggs  all 
summer  long  in  any  nest  that  comes  handiest,  or  sometimes 
on  the  ground,  as  if  not  caring  what  became  of  them.  Cow- 
birds'  eggs  have  been  found  in  the  nests  of  ninety  different 
species  of  North  American  birds,  some  in  such  strange  places 
as  the  eaves-swallow's  high-hung  cradle,  the  hole  of  the  red- 
headed woodpecker,  and  the  long  tunnel  of  the  rock  wren. 
Usually  she  selects  the  nests  of  some  smaller  bird,  and  those 
most  commonly  imposed  upon  are  the  phoebe,  the  song-spar- 
row, the  towhee,  the  indigo  bunting,  the  oven-bird,  and  the 
yellow-breasted  chat.  Often  these  contain  several  eggs  of 
the  cow-bird  and  none  of  their  rightful  owner's.  As  many  as 
seven  cow-bird's  eggs  have  been  found  in  one  nest,  though 
it  is  not  usual  to  find  more  than  one.  When  this  hatches,  it 
crowds  out,  smothers  out,  or  starves  out  the  young  of  the 
rightful  owner,  and  becomes  sole  occupant.  It  is  estimated 
that  each  female  cow-bird1  lays  from  eight  to  twelve  eggs. 
These  are  usually  laid  singly  in  nests  that  should  contain 
from  four  to  five  eggs  of  another  bird.  If  all  the  cow-birds' 
eggs  hatched,  each  female  cow-bird  would  be  responsible  for 
starving  from  thirty  to  sixty  little  birds  of  our  most  benefi- 
cial sorts.  Perhaps  it  is  fortunate  that  the  males  are  in  excess 
of  the  females,  or  the  destruction  might  be  greater. 

1  Hudson  estimates  that  the  female  Argentine  cow-bird  lays  from  sixty  to  a 
hundred  eggs  in  a  season,  and  gives  good  reasons. 


A   DEAD  BEAT.  233 

Luckily,  accidents  happen  to  the  cow-bird's  eggs.  She  lays 
many  on  the  ground ;  she  lays  some  in  deserted  nests  of  the 
year  before;  others  she  puts  in  new  nests  that  are  scarcely 
completed,  and  these  are  frequently  deserted  by  the  owners 
or  another  story  is  built  over  the  intruding  egg.  But  too 
many  of  them  are  received  and  tended.  Once  the  foster 
mother  adopts  the  big  egg,  her  own  brood  is  doomed. 
The  new  egg  gets  more  than  its  share  of  warmth;  it  has 
wonderful  vitality;  it  hatches  very  quickly,  and  its  thick 
shell  protects  it  from  accident,  for  the  cow-bird  has  a  habit 
of  breaking  the  eggs  in  the  nests  she  visits,  even  her  own  if 
she  finds  there  one  laid  previously.  It  is  not  known  whether 
she  pricks  them  with  her  beak  or  with  her  claws,  but  each  one 
is  punctured  so  that  it  will  not  hatch.  How  she  does  it,  young 
naturalists  may  attempt  to  discover. 

The  instance  of  that  South  American  cow-bird,  which  takes 
care  of  its  young  in  a  nest  built  by  other  birds,  indicates  that 
at  some  remote  period  the  others  probably  did  the  same.  It 
has  been  suggested  that  several  females  might  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  laying  in  the  same  nest  to  avoid  the  work  of 
building;  and  that  thus  they  got  into  the  habit  of  turning 
over  their  eggs  to  each  other's  care,  each  expecting  some  other 
bird  to  do  her  work  for  her,  until  at  last  in  order  to  hatch  any 
young  they  were  obliged  to  lay  in  the  nests  of  unrelated 
species  that  were  better  mothers.  Whether  laziness  or  in- 
ability to  build  good  nests  be  the  cause  of  the  parasitic  habit 
we  cannot  determine,  but  it  is  noteworthy  that  the  cuckoos, 
the  only  other  North  American  birds  that  are  much  inclined 
to  similar  habits,  are  poor  builders. 

But  there  is  another  theory,  more  ingenious  and  perhaps 
equally  true.  In  South  America  many  birds  build  large, 
domed  nests,  and  these  prove  so  attractive  that  other  species 


234  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

seek  them  to  nest  in  just  as  our  martins  and  sparrows  and  wrens 
hunt  for  martin  houses.  In  time,  some  of  them  have  lost  the 
art  of  building  nests  for  themselves,  or  else  rarely  practise  it. 
Among  these  birds  is  the  honest  cow-bird.  She  can  build  her 
own  nest  and  sometimes  does  do  it,  but  she  prefers  to  fight 
for  one  of  these  fine,  domed  dwellings.  She  usually  gets  it, 
and  no  sooner  has  she  taken  possession  than  she  makes  a 
window  in  the  side  to  let  the  light  in.  Here  is  a  bird  that 
can  make  an  open  nest,  but  that  prefers  to  live  in  a  covered 
nest. 

Now,  it  is  observed  that  the  other  species  of  cow-birds  of 
South  America,  which  are  never  known  to  build  for  themselves, 
are  greatly  attracted  to  .these  domed  nests.  They  examine 
them,  linger  about  them,  seem  inclined  to  enter,  but  are  afraid 
to  do  so,  and  after  a  half  day's  debating  between  their  desire 
to  go  in  and  their  fear  of  the  dark,  they  back  away  reluctantly. 
If  the  inside  is  light,  they  will  lay  in  it,  but  they  will  not 
make  a  hole  to  let  in  the  light  as  the  honest  cow-birds  do.  A 
lost  instinct  seems  to  prompt  them  to  enter  holes,  indicating 
that  they  once  bred  in  such  places,  or  else  built  a  partially 
covered  nest. 

Among  these  South  American  cow-birds  we  observe  three 
stages  in  acquiring  parasitic  habits.  The  bay-winged  cow-bird 
often  makes  its  own  nest  and  brings  up  its  own  young,  though 
it  more  commonly  uses  the  empty  nests  of  other  birds ;  the 
screaming  cow-bird  is  parasitic  on  the  bay-winged,  and  more 
rarely  on  other  birds ;  the  Argentine  cow-bird  is  parasitic  on 
many  other  birds  but  not  on  other  cow-birds.  One  takes  an 
empty  nest  to  avoid  the  work  of  building ;  one  lays  her  eggs 
in  her  cousin's  nest  to  escape  the  care  of  her  young ;  one  goes 
entirely  out  of  the  family  and  imposes  upon  birds  that  are  not 
related. 


A  DEAD   BEAT.  235 

Among  the  cuckoos,  the  first  stage  of  borrowing  a  nest  seems 
not  to  have  been,  observed;  but  the  second,  of  laying  in  the1 
nests  of  other  birds  of  the  same  family,  is  not  infrequent 
among  the  American  cuckoos  ;  and  the  third,  of  complete  para- 
sitism, though  rare  among  the  American,  is  habitual  in  the 
European  cuckoo,  which  neither  builds  its  nest  nor  cares  for 
its  eggs.  It  would  seem  that  parasitism  must  be  a  habit  which 
has  been  increasing  among  these  birds,  and  that  our  American 
cuckoos  are  yet  in  the  earlier  stages,  while  our  cow-bird  and 
the  European  cuckoo  have  passed  on  to  the  extreme  form  of 
the  habit.  But  habits  are  not  acquired  by  a  perfectly  regular 
and  imperceptible  advance.  There  are  always  some  birds  that 
are  ahead  of  the  rest  and  some  that  are  behind  in  learning  the 
new  ways ;  even  after  the  habit  has  become  a  settled  one,  there 
are  survivals  of  the  older  habit  or  reversions  to  it,  just  as  in 
forming  a  new  habit  there  are  anticipations  of  it  by  the  most 
progressive  birds.  Who  knows  then  but  some  day  sharp  eyes 
may  yet  discover  an  old-fashioned  cow-bird,  not  yet  educated 
up  to  this  end-of-the-century  new-birdism,  feeding  her  young 
in  a  nest  of  her  own  building ;  or  perhaps  may  be  able  to  prove 
that  our  cuckoos  have  as  yet  just  begun  their  career  of  para- 
sitism, and,  like  the  cow-bird,  are  degenerating  into  bird- 
hoboes,  and  gradually  but  surely  becoming  bad  bird-citizens. 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  PASTURE   SPRUCE. 

THE    LOGGERHEAD    SHRIKE. 

OUT  in  the  half-cleared  New  England  pasture,  where  check- 
erberry  leaves  glisten  on  the  hillocks,  and,  in  spring,  rhodora 
grows  among  the  pools  in  the  hollows,  stands  the  old  pasture 
spruce, — not  tall  and  stately  like  its  forest  brothers,  but  a 
sturdy,  knotty  tree  that  reaches  its  long  arms  out  to  shelter 
the  sheep  and  cattle  on  hot  August  noons.  In  a  thousand 
N.ew  England  pastures  stand  just  such  spruce  trees,  among 
the  clumps  of  bayberry  and  huckleberry  bushes.  In  many 
of  them  a  gray-and-white  bird  must  have  her  nest,  as  she  does 
in  this.  Not  many  birds  care  for  such  an  exposed  place, 
which  must  seem  like  living  on  a  lighthouse  far  out  from 
land;  but  this  bird  seems  to  prefer  that  isolation.  In  eight 
nests  of  which  I  have  records  near  my  old  Maine  home,  six 
were  found  in  pasture  spruces,  one  in  a  birch  tree,  and  one  in 
an  apple  tree,  all  isolated  trees. 

The  nest  was  always  placed  upon  the  south  side  of  the 
tree,  saddled  upon  the  broad,  flat  palm  of  an  extended  spruce 
bough  at  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  and  built  with  so 
much  superfluous  material  that  one  wonders  at  the  bird's 
patience  in  collecting  it.  An  old  one  which  I  have  just 
weighed,  weighs  a  quarter  of  a  pound.  If  you  wish  to  see 
how  much  work  it  was  to  make  it,  try  to  pick  up  that  weight 
of  hairs,  dry  grasses,  and  tiny  sticks. 

But  you  can  by  no  means  judge  the  work  she  puts  out 
upon  her  nest  until  you  work  as  she  does,  carrying  them 


\ 


Fia.  50.  — SHRIKE. 


ng  page  236. 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  PASTURE  SPRUCE.  237 

singly  from  one  rod,  or  five,  to  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  spot  where  she  finds  them.  Birds  often  carry  their  nest- 
ing-stuff very  long  distances.  I  know  some  crows  that  used 
to  line  their  nests  with  cow's  hair  which  they  must  have 
collected  fully  a  mile  from  the  nest.  This  was  evident  because 
we  could  see  that  the  hair  was  such  as  is  scraped  from  hides 
at  the  vats  of  tanneries ;  it  was  in  mats  that  had  been 
soaked  ;  and  the  only  tannery  was  a  full  mile  away. 

Let  us  examine  the  nest  in  the  spruce  tree.  First  there  is 
a  coarse  platform  of  twigs  of  birch  and  juniper,  intermingled 
with  tough  spruce  roots.  These  must  have  been  pulled  by 
great  effort  out  of  the  hard,  stony  ground.  It  would  be  as 
easy  for  you  to  jerk  up  a  five-year-old  apple  tree,  and  the  bird 
must  have  gone  to  work  very  much  as  you  would  have  done 
with  the  apple  tree,  first  separating  each  of  the  side  roots,  so 
that  only  the  largest  one  was  left  to  be  pulled  off  by  main 
strength.  There  are  a  number  of  large  roots,  more  dead 
twigs,  much  cedar  bark,  moss,  fine  roots,  string,  and  rope  yarn 
in  the  outer  and  coarser  part  of  the  nest,  each  with  a  history 
when  we  think  where  the  nest  came  from. 

The  cedar  bark  was  stripped  from  the  rail  fence  surround- 
ing the  pasture.  I  suspect  that  the  rhodora  lent  these  fine 
rootlets,  and  these  dried,  smooth  suckers  look  to  me  like  dried 
witch-grass  stems.  (Do  not  call  them  roots  ;  the  witch-grass 
spreads  by  an  underground  stem.)  Here  is  the  gray  moss  that 
grows  on  ledges.  The  nearest  boulder,  where  this  could  be 
obtained,  is  twenty  rods  away  from  the  spruce  tree.  Here  is 
string  —  hard-twisted  cord,  in  pieces  eight  inches  and  a  foot 
long,  as  if  bitten  into  convenient  lengths  by  the  graybird; 
loose-twisted  wicking,  which  could  be  used  in  bulk;  fine 
thread;  materials  that  I  cannot  identify;  rope-yarn  —  un- 
twisted; cotton-waste  from  the  railroad  track;  sheep's  wool, 


238  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

or  woollen  waste ;  and  store  twine,  —  so  much  of  the  last  that 
it  would  seem  she  must  have  begged  it  of  the  butcher's  boy 
before  he  got  to  the  door.  Probably  she  did  pick  it  up  early 
mornings  in  the  yards  of  houses  near  by,  long  before  men 
were  stirring. 

Did  you  ever  think  that  some  bird's  sharp  eye  was  on 
the  lookout  for  every  bit  of  twine  which  you  throw  away  ? 
We  begin  to  appreciate  how  much  our  habit  of  using  strings 
freely  means  to  the  birds  when  we*  notice  the  use  they  make 
of  threads,  cords,  and  twines.  Time  and  labor  are  saved  to 
the  birds  when  men  are  generous  with  their  strings ;  and  we 
can  make  a  variety  of  interesting  and  simple  observations  by 
noting  what  happens  when  a  good  supply  of  string  is  at  their 
disposal.  A  veranda  roof  is  a  good  place  to  put  them  if  you 
spend  much  time  upstairs.  Shut  the  blinds  and  peep  through 
the  cracks  to  see  what  kinds  of  birds  come  for  string.  Vary 
the  experiment  by  putting  out  weak  strings,  like  worsted,  and 
strong  ones,  like  twine,  to  see  whether  the  strength  of  the 
string  is  of  any  importance  to  them.  Place  colored  strings 
with  the  white  ones,  and  notice  whether  they  prefer  or  avoid 
the  colored  ones.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  tell  whether  it 
is  lack  of  an  eye  for  color  or  fear  of  betraying  their  nests  that 
makes  them  avoid  the  colors  ;  and  perhaps  you  will  find  some 
species  preferring  the  colors  when  a  choice  is  given  them. 
Try  them  with  long  strings  and  short,  to  see  whether  they 
judge  their  material  before  they  carry  it  off.  Fasten  some  of 
the  strings  in  various  ways  to  see  whether  they  notice  the  dif- 
ference between  those  that  are  free  and  those  that  are  tied, 
and  how  much  ingenuity  they  have  in  clearing  them  of 
obstructions.  The  more  systematic  and  careful  you  are  in 
making  such  experiments  the  more  you  will  see  that  is  worth 
notice.  Eandom  experiments  amount  to  rery  little.  When 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  PASTURE  SPRUCE.  239 

you  wish,  to  establish  one  fact,  make  your  arrangements  so 
that  your  experiment  or  series  of  experiments  will  clearly 
show  what  you  wish  to  be  proved.  This  string  experiment  is 
the  simplest  possible,  but  it  is  worth  trying. 

But  we  are  far  enough  away  from,  our  nest  in  the  spruce 
tree.  The  outer  structure  we  have  already  analyzed.  Inside 
this  is  a  layer  of  hair.  There  is  sheep's  wool  among  it, 
though  I  do  not  know  of  a  sheep  in  the  neighborhood.  These 
white  horse  hairs  certainly  came  from  the  tail  of  old  Dobbin, 
though  Dobbin  and  the  Deacon,  his  master,  live  half  a  mile 
away.  If  there  is  any  other  white  horse  in  that  vicinity,  the 
graybird  knows  her  neighbors  better  than  I  do.  This  soft 
white  hair,  still  lying  in  little  parcels  just  as  the  industrious 
bird  collected  it  in  her  beak,  I  recognize  as  the  winter  coat  of 
the  Squire's  cow  which  must  have  been  gathered  hair  by  hair 
in  such  places  as  the  cow  was  wont  to  rub  her  sides  while  she 
waited  for  spring  to  come.  Thus  three  kinds  of  animals  have 
furnished  the  second  layer  of  the  graybird's  nest. 

But  there  is  still  a  third,  softer  than  any  of  the  others. 
The  widow's  hens  furnished  that,  yet  her  stock  is  not  fairly 
represented.  Here  are  feathers  and  feathers,  but  all  of  two 
sorts,  —  either  the  white  hackles  from  the  neck  of  some  white 
Cochin  cock,  or  the  soft,  mottled  feathers  of  Plymouth  Rock 
fowls.  There  are  no  gaudy  bronze  and  red  plumes  from  the 
ruffs  of  strutting  barnyard  lords ;  none  of  the  brown  feathers 
of  the  Polish,  nor  black  ones  from  the  Spanish  fowl.  If  I 
did  not  know  better  I  should  think  the  widow  and  her  neigh- 
bors raised  little  else  but  Plymouth  Bocks.  On  the  contrary, 
they  were  not  abundant  in  this  neighborhood  when  this 
nest  was  made.  If  I  had  not  seen  other  nests,  I  should 
think'  the  graybird  had  "happened"  to  take  these  dull, 
spotted  feathers  so  near  her  own  color.  But  every  nest 


240  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

I  ever  saw  contains  more  of  Plymouth  Rock  or  of  plain 
white  feathers  than  of  every  other  kind  taken  together, 
and  observers  from  other  localities  near  by  note  the  same. 
Evidently,  in  this  section,  the  bird  chooses  these  dull  feathers, 
hunts  till  she  finds  them,  and  then  arranges  them  in  a  curious 
manner  that  well  bears  out  the  assertion  that  her  choice  is 
reasonable. 

At  first  sight  you  would  call  this  a  rough  nest.  Any  bird, 
you  would  think,  would  know  better  than  to  leave  feathers 
sticking  up  all  around  her  nest  in  this  unfinished  way.  But 
more  careful  observation  will  show  you  that  the  feathers  are 
sticking  up  only  around  the  rim  of  the  nest ;  that  they  are  put 
in  carefully  so  that  the  tips  curve  inward  over  the  hollow  of 
the  nest.  Fifteen  Plymouth  Eock  hen's  feathers  arch  over 
this  deep  warm  nest,  and  shade  the  mother  as  she  sits  upon  it. 

Do  you  recollect  that  the  bird  built  in  a  lone  tree  in  an  open 
pasture,  where  she  was  much  exposed  to  enemies  ?  There  is 
a  good  reason  why  she  should  wish  to  hide  herself  while  on 
her  nest,  and  why  she  chose  dull,  mottled  feathers  that  har- 
monize with  the  color  of  her  back  and  of  the  nest,  for  a 
screen. 

It  is  true  that  I  have  not  told  you  the  name  of  the  graybird. 
There  is  a  prejudice  against  the  name  of  shrike,  and  when  a 
bird  has  such  an  unattractive  title  as  "  loggerhead  shrike,"  it  is 
hard  for  her  to  get  justice  done.  But  really,  she  is  not  at  all 
a  bad  bird,  and  she  does  know  how  to  make  the  softest,  warm- 
est nest  you  ever  saw.  In  the  South  and  West  she  does  not 
build  in  a  spruce  tree  nor  use  so  many  feathers  ;  there  you 
would  best  look  for  her  in  some  thorny  thicket. 

We  have  two  kinds  of  shrikes,  —  the  great  northern,  or 
winter  shrike,  and  the  loggerhead,  or  summer  shrike.  The 
former  is  seen  only  in  the  more  northern  states,  and  there 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  PASTURE  SPRUCE.  241 

only  in  winter;  the  latter,  with  its  subspecies,  is  found  in 
summer  all  over  the  United  States,  and  in  the  more  southern 
portions  is  the  only  shrike  ever  seen.  The  two  look  so  much 
alike  when  alive  that  the  surest  way  of  identifying  them  is  by 
the  season  when  they  are  seen.  In  Maine  the  great  northern 
shrike  arrives  about  the  first  of  October  and  leaves  about  the 
first  of  March,  while  the  loggerhead  arrives  from  the  South 
just  in  time  to  relieve  him,  and  stays  till  the  great  northern 
returns  in  the  fall.  Farther  south,  the  northern  bird  spends  a 
shorter  time  and  the  southern  bird  a  longer  time  on  the  field. 
The  only  one  known  to  nest  in  the  United  States  is  the  logger- 
head, with  its  subspecies,  the  Californian  and  the  white-rumped 
shrikes.  Both  species  are  medium-sized  birds,  gray  above  and 
white  below,  with  black  wings  and  tail,  marked  with  white, 
and  a  black  stripe  across  the  forehead,  extending  down  the 
side  of  the  head.  Young  birds  lack  the  black  markings  and 
are  of  a  brownish  color.  Shrikes  may  be  easily  identified  by 
their  color  and  by  their  habits,  especially  by  their  choice  of 
the  topmost  branches  of  a  lone  tree  or  of  a  fence-post,  and  by 
their  flying  as  if  intending  to  alight  below  their  perch  and 
suddenly  rising  to  it  with  a  bound. 


HOW   THE    SHRIKE   HUNTS. 

EVERY  boy  considers  the  shrikes  fair  game.  He  may  pop 
pistols  and  snap  slingshots  at  them  in  virtuous  indignation, 
because  they  are  so  cruel  to  the  little  birds.  It  is  generally 
believed  that  they  love  to  torture  little  birds,  and  have  a  habit 
of  hanging  them  all  alive  on  thorns,  and  that  they  are  barbar- 
ously cruel. 

Is  it  not  -true  that  the  reason  why  we  think  the  shrike 
a  bad  fellow  is  not  so  much  because  we  pity  the  little 
birds,  as  because  we  feel  that  if  he  were  only  big  enough  he- 
would  like  to  hang  us  up  on  hooks  too  ?  We  make  a  bug-a-boo 
out  of  the  shrike  when  really  he  is  not  a  particle  more  cruel 
than  the  crow  or  the  blackbird,  not  to  mention  the  hawks  and 
owls. 

Let  us  do  him  justice.  He  does  not  torture  his  victims, 
but  kills  them  speedily  by  pecks  on  the  head,  or  by  throttling 
them ;  he  does  not  hang  them  up  alive ;  and  though  he  kills 
more  than  he  needs,  he  does  not  seem  to  do  it  wantonly,  but 
tidily  hangs  up  the  carcass  where  he  can  find  it  some  day 
when  he  needs  food. 

Here  is  a  picture  of  an  English  sparrow  killed  and  hung  up 
by  a  great  northern  shrike  in  the  fork  of  an  alder  twig, 
drawn  from  nature  so  that  you  may  be  sure  it  is  correct. 
It  is  an  honest  witness  to  the  fact  that  the  sparrow  was  dead 
when  dropped  into  the  fork  of  the  branch.  Had  a  spark  of 
life  remained,  he  must  have  fluttered  out  of  .such  a  wide-angled 
crotch  of  a  tree  which  has  no  thorns  or  side  limbs  to  hold  the 

242 


HOW  THE  SHRIKE  HUNTS. 


243 


bird.  And  though  very  often  the  shrike  hangs  up  its  prey 
by  driving  a  sharp  thorn  through  its  neck,  the  bird  must  be 
dead  before  this  is  done,  because  the  shrike  has  neither  the 

strength  nor  the  sharp  claws  needed 
to   carry   a   struggling    and   frantic 
bird  from  a  quarter  to  half  as  heavy 
as  himself.     It  is  his  custom  either 
to  peck  his  victim  on  the  head,  or 
to  throttle  it  by  pinching  its  throat, 
but  not  to  torture  it.      Hanging  it 
up  is  a  mere   matter 
of    convenience,    and 
shows  that  the  shrike 
has    forethought    for 
the  rainy  day  that  is 
coming,  when   dinner 
will  not  be  so  easily  obtained.      If 
any  young  observer  finds  where  the 
shrike  has  left  his  meat,  he  should 
leave   it   and  watch  it  occasionally, 
to  see  whether  the  bird  ever  comes 
back  for  it. 

Since  the  shrike  has  a  bad  name, 
let  us  see  what  harm  it  does.  In 
winter  the  great  northern  shrike  has 
a  very  limited  bill  of  fare.  A  few 
chickadees,  nuthatches,  downy  wood- 
peckers, red -polls,  crossbills,  pine 
linnets,  snow  buntings,  and  tree-spar- 
rows, with  possibly,  now  and  then, 
a  pine  grosbeak  are  all  the  birds, 
except  the  English  sparrow,  small  enough  for  him  to  master, 


FIG.  51.    SPARROW  HUNG  UP 
BY  SHRIKE. 


244  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

and,  except  the  first  three,  none  of  these  are  beneficial.  Like 
the  shrike,  the  others  are  winter  emigrants  from  the  North 
and  do  no  helpful  work  while  they  are  here. 

Indeed,  the  shrike  is  one  of  our  most  useful  birds,  for 
he  is  a  champion  sparrow  killer.  We  have  no  bird  so 
utterly  depraved,  destructive,  and  altogether  odious  as  the 
English  sparrow.  Aside  from  all  the  other  harm  he  does,  he 
is  estimated  to  eat  or  destroy  not  less  than  five  million  dollars' 
worth  of  grain  and  fruits  yearly.  Any  one  who  makes  one 
English  sparrow  live  where  there  were  two  before  does  more 
good  than  the  man  in  the  proverb  who  set  himself  to  raising 
grass.  We  ought  to  thank  any  bird  that  devotes  his  time  to 
thinning  the  ranks  of  this  pest. 

It  has  long  been  well  known  that  the  great  northern  shrike, 
though  a  shy  bird,  naturally  averse  to  the  society  of  man  and 
even  of  his  own  kind,  is  a  regular  visitor  to  the  parks 
of  great  cities  and  to  town  and  city  gardens  where  sparrows 
resort.  Though  not  visible  every  day  and  all  the  time,  like 
some  birds,  he  is  much  more  commonly  seen  there  than  in 
the  unsettled  country. 

In  my  own  neighborhood  he  first  became  conspicuous  a 
few  years  after  the  English  sparrow  arrived,  and  his  entrance 
into  city  life  in  this  vicinity  seems  to  have  dated  from 
about  that  time.  Though  never  an  abundant  bird,  he  has 
become  a  regular  instead  of  a  rare  winter  visitor,  and  is  still 
rare,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  a  few  miles  from  town. 
One  city  church  surrounded  with  hedges  and  trees,  the  favor- 
ite resort  of  sparrows,  is  his  headquarters  also;  and  it  is  not 
uncommon  while  passing  the  place,  to  see  him  make  a  dash 
among  them  and  drive  them  screaining  in  all  directions.  How- 
ever, it  was  only  recently  that  I  realized  that  he  had  reduced 
sparrow-hunting  to  a  science. 


HOW  THE  SHRIKE  HUNTS.  245 

At  nightfall  of  a  very  cold  day,  as  I  went  out  for  a  walk,  I 
noticed  that  the  sparrows  had  gone  to  bed.  It  was  not  dark, 
for  a  mellow  golden  light  filled  the  west ;  but,  on  account  of 
the  cold,the  birds  had  gone  to  roost  early  and  sat  quietly  muffled 
in  their  feathers.  Half  a  mile  farther  on,  as  I  paused  on  the  top 
of  a  hill  to  look  at  the  after-glow  in  the  west,  I  saw  a  bird 
flying  directly  toward  me  with  the  greatest  speed  and  a  per- 
fectly true  course.  He  must  have  come  from  the  city  across 
the  river,  a  half  mile  away,  and  the  manner  of  his  flight 
showed  that  he  knew  whither  he  was  bound. 

As  »he  whizzed  past,  I  saw  his  black,  gray,  and  white 
livery,  and  marked  his  peculiar  wing-beat,  like  the  stroke  of  a 
strong  rower,  who  rests  on  his  oars  a  moment  between  each 
pull.  It  was  a  great  northern  shrike.  He  was  heading 
straight  for  a  clump  of  thick  cedars  a  hundred  feet  beyond. 
As  he  approached  he  scaled  downward,  and,  when  near  the 
ground,  gave  the  peculiar  upward  bound  that  marks  the 
shrike's  manner"  of  alighting.  For  a  moment  all  was  still. 
Perhaps  ten  <  seconds  or  more  passed  without  a  stir  in  the 
cedars.  Then  there  rose  a  clamor  of  sparrows  and  out  buzzed 
a  flock  of  them  while  the  shrike  in  pursuit  singled  out  one 
of  them,  and  the  chase  began. 

The  sparrow  did  his  best,  but  he  made  a  mistake,  heading 
for  the  open  and  flying  a  straight  course.  The  shrike  was 
far  the  better  bird  on  the  wing,  and  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  time  what  the  end  would  be.  A  house  prevented 
my  witnessing  the  actual  capture,  and  I  was  rather  glad 
that  I  did  not  see  it,  even  if  it  was  one  sparrow  less.  But 
I  had  learned  something  new  to  me  about  the  shrike:  that 
he  has  hunting-grounds  at  some  distance  from  his  head- 
quarters; that  he  visits  them  probably  with  some  regularity; 
that  he  knew  there  would  be  sparrows  in  this  place  at 


246  .         SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

this  time  of  night;  and  that  he  hunted  after  other  birds 
were  abed  to  take  advantage  of  their  habits.  When  he 
arrived  he  did  not  dash  in  and  give  the  alarm  at  once,  but 
entered  quietly  and  low  down  where  he  could  not  be  so 
easily  seen,  waiting  there  till  he  had  located  his  victims, 
when  he  charged  at  them  in  such  a  way  as  to  drive  them 
out  into  the  open  rather  than  through  another  clump  of 


FIG.  52.    CENTIPEDE  IMPALED  BY  SHRIKE. 

cedars  close  at  hand.     Evidently  he  knew  all  about  sparrow- 
hunting,  and  I  suspect  that  this  was  his  regular  night  beat. 

There  is  a  record  of  a  shrike  that  killed  two  sparrows,  and, 
holding  one  in  each  foot,  tried  to  pursue  a  third.  It  has  been 
somewhat  disputed  whether  the  shrike  carries  his  prey  in  his 
feet  or  in  his  bill,  but  young  naturalists  can  easily  settle  that 
for  themselves  by  watching  the  bird.  Besides,  how  do  birds 
always  carry  heavy  weights  ?  and  what  reasons  are  there  that 


HOW  THE  SHRIKE  HUNTS.  247 

they  must  carry  heavy  objects  differently  than  they  might  carry 
light  ones  ? 

The  character  of  the  loggerhead  shrike,  our  summer  visitor, 
seems  to  me  scarcely  to  need  much  defence.  If  any  questions 
are  asked,  here  is  the  picture  of  a  mesquite  branch  which  a 
friend  of  mine  brought  me  from  Arizona  as  a  sample  of  the 
work  of  the  white-rumped  shrike.  He  said  he  had  several 
others,  all  with  centipedes  on  them.  A  bird  that  spends 
its  time  sticking  centipedes  on  thorns,  and  killing  Jerusalem 
crickets,  is  worthy  of  encouragement.  The  Southern  planter 
will  tell  you  that  in  his  fields  the  shrikes  kill  mice  like 
cats ;  and  you  yourself  may  find  the  beetles  and  grasshoppers 
which  she  has  caught,  but  not  eaten,  stuck  upon  the  sharp  spurs 
of  wire  fences  and  behind  slivers  in  the  fence-rails.  In  Florida, 
it  is  reported  that  they  come  day  after  day  bringing  their 
grasshoppers-  and  beetles  to  eat  them  on  some  favorite  spot, 
as  a  tree  stump,  and  that  one  of  their  dining  tables  may  .be 
known  by  the  quantity  of  hard  wing  shards  and  legs  of  insects 
dropped  about  it.  So  far  as  I  know,  the  loggerhead  shrike  is 
largely  an  insect  eater.  It  may  be  that  she  eats  little  birds 
now  and  then,  and  I  would  not  invite  her  to  build  too  near  my 
favorite  chipping  sparrows ;  but  her  bird  neighbors  give  her  a 
good  name,  and  sit  fearlessly  in  her  spruce  tree,  while  they 
cry  out  in  wrath  if  a  crow,  or  a  blackbird,  or  a  cuckoo,  or  a 
bluejay,  comes  too  near  their  nests 


HOW  THE   ROBIN  GETS   HIS  WORM. 

THE  robin  is  the  one  bird  among  those  which  most  frequent 
our  lawns  and  gardens  that  makes  a  practice  of  eating  earth- 
worms. One  of  our  most  familiar  sights  is  to  see  him  go  trot- 
ting over  the  lawn,  apparently  stamping  harder  than  he  needs 
to  as  he  comes  down  heavily  on  his  hind  toes  —  "heels,"  I  had 
almost  said,  forgetting  for  a  moment  where  a  bird's  heel  is  — 
as  if  to  wake  up  the  worms,  then  cocking  his  black  head  to  listen 
as  they  try  to  crawl  back  into  their  burrows.  How  shrewd  he 
looks  !  How  capable  he  is  !  How  quick  in  his  actions  !  He 
has  that  worm  by  the  head  in  an  instant.  When  the  worm 
feels  Robin's  sharp  bill,  he  tries  to  crawl  back  into  his  hole, 
and  if  he  is  large  there  is  a  pretty  little  tug-of-war  to  be  wit- 
nessed on  the  lawn  ;  but  bold  Robin  sags  back  and  pulls  so  well 
that  it  is  seldom  a  worm  escapes  him  when  once  fairly  nipped. 

You  may  have  noticed  that  Robin  is  oftenest  seen  on  the 
lawn  in  wet  weather.  When  it  has  been  fair  for  some  days 
he  is  not  there  to  pull  worms.  The  reason  of  this  is  not  hard 
to  seek. 

You  may  remember  some  morning  having  seen  the  neat 
walks  of  your  garden  pierced  with  little  round  holes,  sur- 
rounded by  piles  of  dirt,  and  of  being  told  that  these  were  "worm 
casts,"  and  that  seeing  them  was  always  a  sign  of  rain.  The 
earthworm  is  fond  of  moisture;  he  must  have  it.  In  dry 
weather  he  gets  it  by  burrowing  deep,  where  the  ground  is  still 
cool  and  damp ;  but  in  wet  weather  he  comes  to  the  surface 
and  perhaps  crawls  about  on  the  top  of  the  ground.  We  say 
sometimes,  when  we  see  the  angleworms  on  the  concrete  walks 

248 


HOW  THE  ROBIN  GETS  HIS   WORM.  249 

of  a  town  after  a  rain,  that  they  "  rained  down."  The  truth 
is  that  they  were  wandering  about  the  surface,  enjoying 
the  moisture,  and  were  drowned  or  crushed  before  they  could 
get  back. 

The  robin  knows  very  well  this  point  in  the  natural  history  of 
earthworms,  and  that  rainy  weather  is  the  time  to  look  for 
them.  His  spirits  rise  with  the  dampness,  and  he  becomes 
more  active,  carolling  his  loud  rain-song,  gathering  mud  for 
his  nest,  digging  worms,  and  feeling  unusually  chirk  and 
happy  just  when  other  birds  look  depressed.  If  you  wish  to 
see  what  a  robin  knows  about  angleworms,  set  the  lawn- 
sprinkler  out  some  bright  day.  If  Kobin  is  as  hungry  for 
worms  as  usual,  he  will  be  there,  hopping  and  digging  right 
under  the  shower  of  drops.  Of  course  he  is  getting  his  back 
wet  when  he  might  easily  keep  dry,  but  he  knows  that  where 
the  ground  is  wettest  the  earthworms  will  come  nearest  the 
surface-. 

I  must  confess  that  I  never  watched  a  robin  carefully  to  see 
how  he  ate  his  worm,  but  the  narrative  is  so  interesting  that 
I  will  quote  from  Mr.  Daniel  E.  Owen's  account  of  a  pet  her- 
mit thrush,  a  description  of  the  way  the  thrush  ate  its  worms. 
As  the  robin  is  a  thrush,  perhaps  the  description  may  serve  for 
both.  "  The  bird  began  by  worrying  the  worm,  much  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse,  nipping,  pecking,  and  slatting  its  victim  vio- 
lently. The  attack  seemed  to  be  directed  mainly  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  the  worm.  Thus,  in  one  case,  the  head  of  the 
worm  was  pecked  ten  times,  the  tail  seventeen  times,  and  the 
middle  twice.  The  worm,  of  course,  struggled  vigorously  at 
first ;  but  after  a  time  lost,  in  a  measure,  the  power  of  motion. 
Now  and  then  the  bird's  beak  would  miss  the  worm,  or  would 
slip  off.  At  such  times  the  mandibles  came  together  with  an 
audible  snap,  conveying  a  suggestion  of  the  torturing  pinches 


250  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

to  which  the  im fortunate  worm  was  being  subjected.  The 
pommelling  and  nipping  having  gone  on  for  from  one  and  a 
half  to  three  and  a  half  minutes,  the  thrush  would  next  essay 
to  swallow  the  worm,  beginning,  almost  invariably,  at  the  tail. 
In  the  case  of  a  big  worm,  the  process  of  swallowing  was  dis- 
tressingly prolonged  by  the  efforts  of  the  worm  to  escape,  in 
which  it  often  succeeded  so  far  as  to  crawl  out  of  the  bird's 
mouth  almost  as  fast  as  it  was  drawn  in.  The  fact  that  the 
thrush  swallowed  its  worms  tail  first,  gains  something  in  inter- 
est when  the  structure  of  the  earthworm  is  taken  into  account. 
As  is  well  known,  the  earthworm's  body  consists  of  from  one 
hundred  to  two  hundred  rings  or  segments.  Every  segment, 
except  the  anterior  two  or  three  and  the  tail,  affords  insertion 
to  four  groups  of  short  bristles,  to  which  muscles  are  attached 
and  by  means  of  which  the  worm  progresses.  Now  a  person 
would  suppose  that  the  presence  of  several  hundred  little  bris- 
tles, all  pointing  the  wrong  way,  would  interfere  with  easy  and 
pleasurable  deglutition  ;  and,  inasmuch  as  a  worm  normally 
crawls  ahead  and  not  back,  I  expected  to  see  my  thrush  swal- 
low worms  head  first,  when  it  is  to  be  presumed  the  bristles 
in  question  would  not  retard  the  process.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  contrary  method  was  followed." 

This  hermit  thrush  always  ate  at  least  half  its  own  weight 
of  raw  beef  a  day,  or  a  much  greater  amount  of  worms,  which 
were  not  so  hearty.  Careful  experiments  indicated  that  it 
would  have  eaten  its  own  weight  of  worms  in  three  or  four 
hours.  How  hard  it  would  be  to  feed  children  if  they  ate  in 
proportion !  The  thrush  had  a  keen  sense  of  taste  and  would 
refuse  worms  that  came  from  a  dirty  place,  "  making  a  great 
splutter"  or  "  rejecting  them  with  every  symptom  of  nausea 
and  abhorrence,  wiping  its  bill  on  the  nearest  object  which 
was,  generally,  my  hand."  Though  taken  captive  when  very 


HOW  THE  ROBIN  GETS  HIS   WORM.  251 

young,  the  bird  showed  an  instinct  for  hunting  worms,  and 
would  alight  on  its  master's  table  and  pull  over  all  the  sheets 
of  paper,  just  as  it  would  have  searched  beneath  the  dead 
leaves  in  its  home  in  the  woods. 

What  has  most  interested  me  in  Robin's  worm-hunting  is  the 
way  he  gets  his  worms  in  early  spring.  When  he  first  comes 
in  the  spring  to  his  far  Northern  home  in  Maine  he  arrives 
long  before  the  snow  is  gone.  In  ordinary  years  he  reaches 
here  by  the  middle  of  March,  when  it  is  spring  by  the  almanac. 
At  that  season,  even  in  the  best  of  years,  every  fence  carries  a 
great  snow-drift  along  its  northern  side,  which  often  does  not 
melt  till  the  middle  of  April.  Looking  from  my  window  to- 
day, the  thirteenth  of  April,  1898,  I  can  see  snow-drifts  in 
gardens  where  peas  are  already  planted.  When  the  robins 
first  come,  one  would  expect  to  see  them  avoid  this  snow  and 
seek  the  open  fields  and  gardens ;  but  I  most  frequently  find 
them,  often  in  small  flocks,  hopping  along  the  edges  of  the 
drifts,  eating  food  that  they  find  there.  In  any  field  I  would 
expect  to  find  most  robins  on  the  south  side,  which  is  of 
course  the  one  where  the  snow  lies,  as  it  is  shaded  by  the 
fence,  or  stone  wall,  or  row  of  trees  that  bounds  the  field  and 
shuts  off  the  southern  sun.  Whatever  you  may  think,  the 
northern  side  of  a  field  will  dry  sooner  than  the  southern  side, 
the  northern  sidewalk  will  dry  sooner  than  the  southern  one, 
if  the  field  have  a  fence  and  the  sidewalk  have  houses  on 
the  southern  edge. 

To  settle  why  the  robins  followed  the  drifts  was  a  matter, 
that  required  some  thinking.  What  was  the  advantage  to 
them? 

I  have  just  been  out  and  examined  the  drifts  I  spoke 
of,  to  be  sure  that  no  one.  can  think  me  mistaken  in  assign- 
ing a  reason.  These  drifts  are  made  up  of  granulated  icy 


252  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

snow,  resting  upon  a  bed  of  solid  ice  formed  by  their  settling 
and  packing.  On  the  southern  side,  next  the  high  fence,  the 
slope  of  the  drift  is  steep  and  but  little  ice  shows  at  the  foot  — 
an  inch  or  two  perhaps ;  on  the  northern  side  of  the  drift,  where 
the  sun  strikes  soonest  as  it  looks  down  over  the  fence,  the  slope 
is  more  gradual  and  a  rim  of  ice  four  or  five  inches  wide  bor- 
ders the  drift.  Everybody  knows  that  in  March  there  is  always 
a  muddy  line  about  a  snow-drift  that  he  must  leap  across. 
This  bank  has  soaked  a  line  from  one  to  three  feet  wide,  ac- 
cording to  the  slope  of  th'e  soil,  so  that  the  mud  is  from  three 
inches  deep  to  one  inch  deep  around  the  snow-bank,  according 
to  the  amount  of  water  that  has  been  absorbed.  The  nar- 
rower the  width  of  the  muddy  line,  the  deeper  the  mud  at 
that  point. 

Here  we  come  to  the  point  that  appeals  to  the  robin.  Food 
is  hard  to  get  in  March.  Every  night  the  fields  freeze  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  drift,  and  the  next  day  they  are  dry.  But  as 
the  snow  melts,  the  waste  water  thaws  the  ground  and  leaves 
a  muddy  line  in  the  track  by  which  it  retreats,  a  soft  space 
which  can  be  worked  over  easily  by  the  birds,  who  gather  to 
pick  out  seeds  and  torpid  insects  or  such  bits  of  food  as  they 
can  find  a  little  beneath  the  surface.  In  this  way  the  robin 
takes  advantage  of  the  forces  of  nature  just  as  a  man  would, 
arid  turns  even  ice  and  snow  to  good  account. 

Wise  robin  !  coming  early,  with  a  song,  with  a  brave  dis- 
regard for  winter  only  partly  vanquished,  and  a  good  heart 
to  fare  hard  if  need  be,  spring  in  the  North  would  lack  its 
best  delight  if  it  missed  your  annual  return. 


"THE   STRANGE   THINGS   BIRDS   DO  AND   THE 
STRANGE   THINGS   THEY   SAY." 

THERE  is  a  delightful  uncertainty  of  expectation  in  study- 
ing birds.  You  never  can  be  sure  but  the  bird  you  know  so 
well  will  next  moment  do  something  so  unexpected  that  you 
will  feel  that  no  one  else  in  all  the  world  has  seen  such  a 
strange,  true  thing. 

Most  birds  can  swim  a  little  under  compulsion.  The  pecto- 
ral sandpiper  voluntarily  alights  on  the  ocean.  The  wounded 
stilt  swims,  the  wounded  least  sandpiper  dives,  and  even  a 
heron  will  swim  if  it  falls  into  the  water;  yet  none  of  these 
are  swimming  birds  by  habit. 

And  often,  too,  a  bird  will  suddenly  change  its  habits,  as 
when  swallows  alight  in  trees,  and  when  domestic  pigeons 
alight  in  bushes  to  eat  berries,  or  when  one  builds  its  nest 
in  a  tree,  as  I  have  known  one  to  do ;  or,  when  such  exclusively 
ground  birds  as  the  willet,  the  yellow-legs  plover,  the  whistling 
plover,  the  Wilson's  snipe  and  other  waders,  during  their  breed- 
ing season,  perch  by  preference  on  the  branches  of  trees.  But 
what  shall  we  say  when  a  hawk  eats  choke  cherries;  when 
owls  hunt  by  day,  and  bitterns  hunt  by  night ;  when  king- 
fishers eat  insects,  and  chickadees  eat  meat,  and  sea-gulls  are 
said  to  live  on  corn  ? 

It  is  not  unusual  to  hear  of  a  bird  adopting  a  family  of  an 
entirely  different  species,  as  cats  sometimes  adopt  rabbits  or 
puppies,  and  as  dogs  have  been  known  to  become  responsible 
for  broods  of  chickens.  There  is  a  record  of  a  male  cardinal 
grosbeak  becoming  foster-father  to  two  young  Baltimore  orioles ; 

253 


254  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

of  a  scarlet  tanager  feeding  young  chipping  sparrows ;  of  a  chest- 
nut-sided warbler  caring  for  some  young  redstarts  that  were  not 
orphans,  and  a  wren-tit  feeding  a  young  lazuli  bunting.  We 
may  any  day  expect  to  happen  upon  an  incident  of  this  kind,  or 
to  find  where  some  bird  has  laid  in  another's  nest,  as  the  quails 
often  do  and  as  the  roseate  and  Wilson's  terns  have  been  re- 
ported to  do. 

Who  would  expect  a  woodpecker  to  turn  cannibal  and  eat 
little  birds  ?  Or  to  rob  birds'  nests  of  their  eggs  and  young  ? 
We  have  no  more  staid  and  respected  birds  than  these  wood- 
peckers, who  are  not  commonly  regarded  as  "eaters  of  little 
children"  even  by  jealous  bird  mammas;  but  now  and 
then  some  lunatic  or  hopelessly  degenerate  woodpecker  will 
commit  a  ghastly  crime.  The  crow-blackbirds  are  not  gener- 
ally supposed  to  be  above  temptations  of  green  corn,  but  they 
were  not  till  recently  accused  of  playing  the  thug  to  little 
birds  and  of  poaching  live  fish  from  private  ponds.  But  both 
these  serious  charges  have  been  fully  proved  against  them  in 
several  instances  and  the  different  observers  agree  that  in  such 
cases  the  blackbirds  pick  out  and  eat  the  brains  of  their  prey. 
The  honest  eaves-swallow  has  been  seen  to  steal  her  neighbor's 
mud  and  to  build  it  into  her  own  nest ;  and  I  have  seen  the 
blue-backed  swallow  which  is  supposed  invariably  to  eat 
nothing  but  little  flies,  taken  by  coursing  after  them,  flying 
round  by  the  dozen  and  alighting  on  a  cherry  tree  to  pick 
off  the  caterpillars  that  had  nearly  stripped  it  of  its  leaves.  It 
was  a  strange  thing,  too,  for  a  Baltimore  oriole  to  eat  green 
poplar  leaves,  as  it  was  observed  to  do  year  after  year. 

There  is  always  a  chance  of  seeing  something  new  and  in- 
credible, though  the  chance  comes  to  him  who  knows  best  what 
is  usual  and  even  more  than  credible  —  tiresomely  familiar. 
And  over  and  above  the  pleasure  that  comes  from  watching 


FIG.  54.  —  HERMIT  THRUSH. 


Facing  page  255. 


"THE  STRANGE  THINGS  BIRDS  DO."  255 


the  ways  of  birds,  is  the  enjoyment  to  be  taken  in  their  songs 
and  calls,  which  often  tell  us  as  much  as  our  eyes  could  dis- 
cover. 

If  your  musical  ear  is  not  good,  and  you  cannot  whistle  a 
bird's  song  or  write  it  in  musical  notes,  you  may  put  it  into 
words  that  will  say  as  nearly  as  possible  what  the  bird  seems 
to  be  singing. 

u  For  what  are  the  voices  of  birds,  ' 

Ay,  and  of  beasts,  but  words  —  ouj*  words, 

Only  so  much  more  sweet  ?  " 

This  exercise  will  fix  your  mind  upon  the  bird's  song  and 
will  help  you  to  carry  this  in  your  memory  from  year  to 
year,  though  it  has  no  other  value  unless  it  is  very  well 
done.  There  is,  however,  always  the  chance  of  doing  it  well, 
so  well  that  it  becomes  a  classic,  and  everybody  after  you  will 
quote  your  version  because  now  they  can  hear  nothing  else 
than  what  you  heard.  Do  we  not  always  remember  Thoreau's 
version  of  the  brown  thrasher's  talk  to  the  farmer :  "  Cover  it 
up !  cover  it  up !  cover  it  up  !  Pick  it  up !  pick  it  up !  pick  it 
up  !  Pull  it  up !  pull  it  up !  pull  it  up  !  "  —  a  song  that  shows 
properly  enough  that  their  relationship  is  with  those  nervous 
little  scolds,  the  wrens,  rather  than  with  the  divinely  placid 
spotted  thrushes.  How  Mr.  John  Burroughs's  "0  spheral, 
spheral !  0  holy,  holy !  "  the  ringing  vesper  hymn  of  the  hermit 
thrush,  doth  "  serenely  exalt  the  spirit ! "  It  brings  up 
before  us  the  birch  wood  veiled  with  a  misty  gauze  of  half- 
unfolded  leaves  and  sweet  with  the  earthy  fragrance  of  early 
May,  where,  in  religious  solitude,  these  saintly  singers,  like 
nuns  in  chapel,  chant  an  evening  service.  "O  spheral,  spheral ! 
0  holy,  holy  !  " 

We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Burroughs  for  many  of  these  clear 
transcriptions  of  songs  we  have  known  *  always.  "Teacher! 


256  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

teacher!!  TEACHER  ! ! !  "  calls  the  oven-bird  to  Mr.  Burroughs, 
and  it  is  clear  how  he  got  it ;  he  must  have  been  thinking  of 
the  school  days  of  his  youth,  when  the  boy  who  knew  the  ques- 
tion, but  wasn't  asked,  took  advantage  of  the  mortified  silence 
of  the  boy  who  had  been  asked,  but  didn't  know,  to  call  atten- 
tion to  himself  by  sliding  far  forward  on  the  seat,  snapping 
the  fingers  of  his  uplifted  hand,  and  calling,  "  Teacher ! 
teacher  !  !  TEACHER  !  ! !  "  When  you  hear  the  oven-bird  high  in 
a  tree-top  calling  that  sharp  crescendo,  you  will  think  of  the 
boy  in  the  old-time  country  school  and  wonder  how  any  one 
could  have  been  so  unobservant  as  to  tell  of  his  we-cher  or 
beecher  notes. 

I  find  in  my  notebooks  a  rendering  of  the  goldfinch's  spring 
song,  which  I  am  very  sure  must  have  come  from  Mr.  Burroughs. 
The  goldfinch,  our  little  "  yellow  bird,"  with  the  black  cap 
and  the  black  wings  and  tail,  called  by  the  scientists 
"  tristiSj  the  sad  one,"  hits  the  heart  of  melancholy  with  his 
plaintive  late  summer  and  fall  song.  But  in  the  springtime 
he  is  a  joyous  lover,  and  his  mating  song  is  a  pretty  compli- 
ment to  his  beloved  :  "  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  Marjori'e,  Marjon'e." 

To  me  the  yellow-throated  vireo  seems  to  say,  "  Here  I  am  ! 
Mary !  Mary  !  Here  I  am  !  "  No  doubt  Mary  is  very  fond  of 
him;  they  always  seem  entirely  devoted  to  each  other,  and 
they  build  one  of  the  prettiest  nests  a  proud  mother  ever 
introduced  us  to,  trusting  us  to  admire  and  not  to  injure  it. 

The  scarlet  tanager  is  generally  set  down  as  saying  chip-churr, 
a  remark  equally  without  originality  and  meaning,  but  to  me 
he  always  seems  convulsed  with  laughter  at  his  little  green 
wife's  doings,  and  like  to  burst  his  waistcoat  buttons  as  he 
chuckles,  "  Oh,  dear,  kick  her  !  kick  her  !  " 

"  Who,  who,  who  are  you  ?  "  Thoreau  says  is  the  question 
of  the  great  horned  owl.  Those  big  eyes  and  tall  ears  cer- 


FIG.  55.  —  VIREO. 


Facing  page  256. 


257 

tainly  indicate  curiosity.  Isn't  the  remark  appropriate  ?  for 
before  you  hear  him  talk  you  must  go  into  the  forest,  his  own 
castle,  and  he  has  a  right  to  inquire,  "  Who,  who,  who  are 
you  ?  " 

There  are  the  low-spirited  goatsuckers,  with  their  "ivhip- 
poor-will"  and  "  clmck-wilVs-widow"  They  remind  us  of  people 
who  take  pleasure  in  going  to  funerals  ;  all  their  news  is  dole- 
ful, but  they  tell  it  at  length  and  over  and  over  again.  In  some 
parts  of  the  South  the  chuck-will's- widow  is  called  the  "  chip- 
the-red-oak-white-oak  "  bird,  which  is  certainly  a  more  cheerful 
if  not  a  more  sensible  remark.  All  of  you  can  think  of  other 
birds  that  go  about  telling  their  own  names.  Cliick-a-dee-dee  ! 
Phoebe!  Pee-e-wee!  Chebec  !  you  cannot  help  imitating  the 
sagacious,  businesslike  tone  of  the  first ;  the  rather  impatient 
call  of  the  second,  as  of  a  mother  calling  out  of  a  window 
to  a  truant  child ;  the  discouraged,  hot  weather  drawl  of 
the  wood  pewee ;  and  the  sharp  snappy  click  of  the  least 
flycatcher  as  he  jerks  out  "  chebec !  chebec ! "  like  a  tart 
but  bright-eyed  girl  who  intends  to  bang  the  door  together  if 
you  ask  her  another  question.  There  is  so  much  individuality 
about  all  these  birds  that  have  given  themselves  their  own 
names. 

There  is,  too,  our  white-throated  sparrow,  who,  in  the  North, 
gets  all  sorts  of  names  from  his  song.  He  is  called  the  Pea- 
body  bird,  the  Asa  Peabody  bird,  or  the  Old  Sam  Peabody 
bird,  and  on  Prince  Edward  Island  the  Kennedy  bird,  from 
the  syllables  he  speaks  so  plainly.  High  up  or  low  down  the 
scale  he  sings  his  "a"  syllable,  then  drops  or  rises  to  the  "see" 
and  sings  off  in  a  succession  of  ringing  triplets  his  "  Peabody, 
Peabody,  Peabody,  Peabody"  He  sings  in  the  evening  or  early 
morning ;  but  if  he  is  heard  later  than  nine  o'clock,  rain  is  com- 
ing in  a  few  hours.  Unfortunately  he  is  silent  until  he  gets 


258  SOME  COMMON  LAND-BIRDS. 

as  far  north  as  Massachusetts,  so  that  few  of  us  may  hear  his 
clear,  thrilling  notes.  Some  say  that  he  sings,  "  Hear  me, 
holy  Theresa,"  as  if  supplicating  a  saint ;  but  on  Prince 
Edward  Island  they  declare  that  he  sings,  "  Good  Lord, 
pity  me,  pity  me,  pity  me ! "  which  is  a  true  litany  put  to  most 
fitting  music. 

Few  birds  are  easier  to  tell  by  their  music  and  harder  to  tell 
without  it  than  the  vireos.  By  all  means  put  their  song  into 
words.  Remember  the  yellow-throated  vireo's  song  already 
given  and  Mr.  Chapman's  rendering  of  the  white-eyed  vireo's 
abrupt  little,  "  Who  are  you,  eh  ?  "  and  that  one  by  which 
Wilson  Flagg  described  once  and  forever  tlie  red-eyed  vireo's 
incessant  homily,  "You  see  it  —  you  know  it — do  you  hear 
me  ?  —  do  you  believe  it?"  as  he  trips  about  the  tree  trunks, 
picking  up  insects  between  the  phrases. 

And  here  is  one  of  the  bobolink's  worth  remembering.  If 
run  through  rather  quickly  and  with  increasing  rapidity  and  a 
rising  inflection,  it  mimics  admirably  the  spring  song  of  this 
jolly,  careless,  light-hearted,  and  boisterously  happy  fellow, 
who  doesn't  try  to  sing,  but  just  opens  his  mouth  and  lets  the 
music  bubble  out.  "  Tom  Noodle,  Tom  Noodle,  you  owe  me, 
you  owe  me  ten  shillings  and  sixpence  !"  —  "I  paid  you,  I  paid 
you  !  "  —  "  You  didn't,  you  didn't!  "  —  "  You  lie,  you  lie  ;  you 
cheat ! "  And  then  the  black-and-white  dandy  who  has  been 
singing  both  parts  of  the  duo,  just  tumbles  down  into  the 
grass  to  rest  himself. 

"  June's  bridesman,  poet  of  the  year, 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here  ; 
Half  hid  in  tip-top  apple-blooms  he  swings, 
Or  climbs  against  the  breeze  with  quivering  wings, 
Or,  giving  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  of  laughter,  through  the  air." 


Fia.  56.  — WHITE-THROATED  SPARROW. 


Facing  page  258. 


"THE  STRANGE  THINGS  BIRDS  DO."  259 

These  are  among  the  pleasures  of  the  study  of  birds  —  the 
unexpectedness  of  so  much  that  we  see,  and  the  novelty  that 
we  can  create  for  ourselves  by  trying  to  find  interpretations  of 
their  songs  and  habits.  Yes,  and  the  uncertainties.  It  is 
these  that  make  birding  a  true  sport,  not  inferior  to  angling  to 
those  who  find  their  hearts  set  upon  it.  It  is  the  gentlest 
of  the  sporting  pleasures,  and  yet  it  has  the  attractions  of  the 
keenest.  Here  is  an  object  for  a  well-earner1  outing,  a  chance 
of  failure,  the  thrill  of  the  quest,  the  premium  on  knowing 
how,  the  acquisition  of  skill  and  patience,  the  recollection  of 
delight  that  will  help  in  dull  and  dreary  hours.  And  there 
are  advantages  over  the  other  sports  of  the  chase,  which  not 
only  end  in  bloodshed  that  is  not  pleasant  to  remember,  but 
which  are  forbidden  at  times  and  seasons.  For  there  is  no 
law  against  birding  with  an  opera  glass,  and  it  yields  more 
varied  delight  than  either  rod  or  gun.  How  few  are  the  kinds 
of  game  or  fish  which  the  sportsman  counts  as  fit  for  his  pur- 
suit !  how  many  are  the  kinds  that  are  accounted  game  for  the 
opera  glass !  There  is  no  anticipating  the  results  of  a  day's 
sport  with  an  opera  glass.  Science  may  not  be  attractive  to 
us ;  we  may  not  desire  knowledge ;  but  who  is  able  to  deny 
the  attractions  of  days  with  the  birds  when  we  reckon  them 
with  our  sports  ? 


APPENDIX. 


c 


SOME  OF  THE 

CHIEF  ZOOGEOGRAPHICAL  DIVISIONS 

IN 

NORTH    AMERICA 


ARCTIC  REALM 


COLD  TEMPERATE  SUB-REGION 


ARID  PROVINCE 


HUMID  PROVINCE 


(     1    FLORIDIAN    FAUNA 

ANTILLEAN  REGION   \   *  TEMAULIPAN  FAUN* 

(     3  ST.   LUCAS 


ZOOGEOGRAPHICAL   DIVISIONS   OF  THE   WORLD, 

AFTER  DR.  J.  A.  ALLEN. 

REALMS,    REGIONS,    SUBREGIONS,    PROVINCES,    SUBPROVINCES, 
DISTRICTS, 


I.Arctic.        .\    .       ',       |  Barren  Ground 
1  Arctic  Alaskan 

Aleutian 

I  olrr- 

2.   North 
Tem- 

North 
Ameri- 
can 

VyUHX 

Tem- 
perate 

Sitkan 
Hudsonian, 
Canadian 

perate 

Warm 

Tem- 

Appalachian 
Humid  -j 

f  Alleghanian 
Carolinian 

perate 

[^  Austroriparian 

Louisianian 

Great 

Plains 

(not  yet 

fCampestrian  . 

Great 
Basin 

divided 
into 

Pacific 

faunae) 

.      ' 

Coast 

Sonoran    (not    yet    divided    into 

faunae) 
Eurasian  (Europe  and  Asia,  except  India) 

3.  Amer-  (  Central  American 

ican  ( Floridian 

Tropical    [  Antillean         ^,-       .  .      .        .        •        .        J  Temaulipan 

[  St.  Lucas 

4.  Indo-African  (including  India  and  adjacent  islands  and  Africa  except 

northern  part). 

5.  South- American  Temperate  (including  all  outside  Realm  3). 

6.  Australian  (Australia  and  surrounding  islands). 

7.  Lemurian  (Madagascar). 

263 


264  APPENDIX. 

8.    Antarctic  (Antarctic  circumpolar  region). 

All  the  realms  may  be  subdivided  like  Realm  2,  which  alone  is  shown 
in  this  table. 

MIGRATION. 

I.  Mr.  William  Brewster's  list  of  birds  which  migrate  freely, 
chiefly,  or  exclusively  by  day  :  — 

The  Robin.  The  Waxwing  family. 

The  Bluebird.  The  Swallow  family. 

The  Horned  Lark.  The  Shrike  family. 

The  Titlark.  The  Hummingbird  family. 

The  Kingbird.  The  Crow  family. 

The  Chimney  Swift.  The  Hawk  family. 

The    Oriole    family  (except    the      The  Dove  family. 
Meadow  Lark  and  the  Orioles  proper). 

Also  from  the  other  list,  Pine  Grosbeak,  Purple  Finch,  etc., 
etc. 

The  manner  of  the  migration  of  the  Kingfisher  is  not  known. 

The  Nighthawk,  Whippoorwill,  Owls,  and  birds  that  are 
habitually  nocturnal  or  crepuscular  naturally  migrate  by  night. 

II.  Mr.  Brewster's  list  of  birds  that  migrate  exclusively  by 
night :  — 

The  Thrush  family  (except  Robin  The    Finch    family    (except    Pine 

and  Bluebird) .  Grosbeak,  Purple  Finch  (  ?) ,  Cross- 

The  Kinglet  family.  bills,   Redpolls,    Goldfinch,  Pine 

The  Titmouse  and  Chicadee  family.  Linnet,  and  Snow  Bunting) . 

The  Nuthatch  family.  The  Meadow  Lark. , 

The  Creeper  family.  The  Orioles. 

The  Wren  family.  The     Flycatcher     family     (except 

The  Warbler  family.  Kingbird). 

The  Vireo  family.  The  Cuckoo  family. 

The  Tanager  family.  The  Woodpecker  family. 

Several  of  these  take  short  flights  by  day,  but  never  make 
any  extended  migration  until  night,  merely  seeking  their  food 
in  the  direction  they  intend  to  fly  by  night  so  as  to  lose  no 
ground. 


MIGRATION .  265 

III.    Mr.  Brewster's  Theory  of  Migration. 

"  1.  Species  which  migrate  exclusively  by  night  habitually 
feed  in  or  near  the  shelter  of  trees,  bushes,  rank  herbage  or 
grass,  and  when  not  migrating  are  birds  of  limited  powers  of 
flight  and  sedentary  habits,  restricting  their  daily  excursions 
to  the  immediate  vicinity  oi;  their  chosen  haunts.  As  a  rule 
they  are  of  timid,  or  at  least  retiring  disposition,  and  when 
alarmed  or  pursued  seek  safety  in  concealment  rather  than  by 
extended  flights. 

"2.  Species  which  migrate  chiefly,  or  very  freely  by  day, 
habitually  feed  in  open,  exposed  situations,  and  in  their  daily 
excursions  for  food  often  cover  considerable  distances.  As  a 
rule  they  are  of  a  bold,  restless  disposition,  and  when  alarmed  or 
pursued  seek  safety  in  long  flights  rather  than  by  concealment. 

"3.  Species  which  migrate  exclusively  by  day,  habitually 
feed  either  on  the  wing  or  over  very  extensive  areas.  In  dis- 
position they  are  either  trustful  and  unsuspecting,  or  wary 
and  self-reliant.  Without  exception  they  are  birds  of  strong, 
easy  flight,  and  rely  solely  on  their  wings  for  escape  from 
danger. 

"  These  premises  lead  easily,  if  not  irresistibly,  to  the  con- 
clusion that :  — 

"  Timid,  sedentary,  or  feeble-winged  birds  migrate  by  night 
because  they  are  either  afraid  to  venture  on  long,  exposed 
journeys  by  daylight,  or  unable  to  continue  their  journeys  day 
after  day  without  losing  much  time  in  stopping  to  search  after 
food.  By  taking  the  nights  for  travelling  they  can  devote 
the  days  entirely  to  feeding  and  resting  in  their  favorite  haunts. 
Good  examples  are  the  Thrushes  (except  the  Robin),  Wrens, 
Warblers,  and  Vireos. 

"  Bold,  restless,  strong-winged  birds  migrate  chiefly,  or  very 
freely,  by  day,  because,  being  accustomed  to  seek  their  food 
in  open  situations,  they  are  indifferent  to  concealment,  and 
being  further  able  to  accomplish  long  distances  rapidly  and 
with  slight  fatigue,  they  can  ordinarily  spare  sufficient  time 


266  APPENDIX. 

by  the  way  for  brief  stops  in  places  where  food  is  abundant 
and  easily  obtained.  Under  certain  conditions,  however,  as 
when  crossing  large  bodies  of  water  or  regions  scantily  sup- 
plied with  food,  they  are  sometimes  obliged  to  travel  partly, 
or  perhaps  even  exclusively,  by  night.  Excellent  examples 
are  the  Eobin,  Horned  Lark,  and  most  of  the  Oriole  family. 

"  Birds  of  easy,  tireless  wing,  which  habitually  feed  in  the 
air  or  over  very  extensive  areas,  migrate  exclusively  by  day, 
because,  being  able  to  obtain  their  usual  supply  of  food  as  they 
fly,  or  to  accomplish  the  longest  journeys  so  rapidly  that  they 
do  not  require  to  feed  on  the  way,  they  are  under  no  necesshYy 
of  changing  their  usual  habits.  The  best  examples  are  the 
Swallows,  Swifts,  and  Hawks. 

"  Nocturnal  and  crepuscular  birds,  at  least  migratory  species, 
are  all  strong-winged  and  accustomed  to  seek  their  food  over 
wide  areas.  Hence,  like  the  Swallows,  Swifts,  and  Hawks, 
they  migrate  during  the  hours  of  their  habitual  activity. 

"  The  conclusions  just  reviewed  will  apply  also  to  the  wading 
and  swimming  birds ;  for  their  migrations,  making  due  allow- 
ance for  the  peculiar  habits  of  certain  species  and  groups,  are 
easily  explainable  by  considerations  either  identical  with,  or 
similar  to,  those  above  mentioned. 

"  The  Bittern,  Woodcock,  Wilson's  Snipe,  Spotted  Sand- 
piper, and  the  Rails  without  exception,  migrate  exclusively  by 
night.  They  are  all  sedentary  birds  addicted  to  feeding  in 
particular  and  usually  limited  areas,  and  all  but  the  Spotted 
Sandpiper  seek  safety  in  concealment.  Accordingly,  it  is  in 
line  with  the  previous  reasoning  .that  they  should  migrate  by 
night  and  rest  and  feed  by  day.  The  case  is  not,  however, 
exactly  parallel  with  that  of  any  of  the  land  birds,  for  these 
waders  (except,  perhaps,  the  Spotted  Sandpiper)  feed  habitu- 
ally more  by  night  than  by  day.  But  all  —  even  the  Wood- 
cock —  also  feed  freely  by  day  during  the  migrations. 

"  The  remainder  of  the  wading  and  all  the  swimming  birds 
migrate  indifferently  by  both  night  and  day.  This  was  to  be 


HINTS   ON   OBSERVING   BIRDS.  267 

expected  when  we  consider  that  they  feed  more  or  less  indiffer- 
ently and  freely  at  all  hours,  and  are  not  accustomed  to  seek 
safety  in  concealment. 

"  Certain  species  of  Ducks,  as  well  as  all  the  Loons,  Grebes, 
and  Auks  do,  however,  frequently  or  habitually  elude  their 
various  enemies  by  diving.  Thus  water  is  in  one  respect  to 
them  what  grass,  rushes,  etc.,  are  to  Snipe  and  Quail,  — r  a 
refuge  from  danger.  This  doubtless  explains  a  fact  which  I 
have  often  observed ;  viz.,  that  while  most  diving  birds  migrate 
freely  by  day  along  our  coast  they  invariably  perform  long 
overland  journeys  by  night.  The  reason  is  obvious.  In  one 
case  flying  directly  over  a  continuous  expanse  of  water  they 
are  able  to  avail  themselves  of  its  shelter  at  a  moment's  notice 
in  the  other  they  would  be  quite  without  this  resource,  if 
suddenly  threatened  or  attacked. 

"  The  manner  of  migration  of  our  birds  is  determined  by  one, 
two,  or  all  of  the  following  considerations :  habitual  manner  of 
procuring  food,  disposition,  wing-power.  It  evidently  has  little 
or  nothing  to  do  with  relationship  or  affinities  except  within 
very  narrow  limits." 

HINTS   ON   OBSEBVINO   BIBDS. 

Briefly  stated,  these  hints  fall  under  a  few  heads,  —  tools, 
time,  what  to  look  for,  how  to  see  it,  where  to  go,  what  to 
notice.  The  last  is  treated  under  hints  on  identification. 

Of  tools.  —  Besides  books,  a  teacher  needs  a  note-book  and,  if 
possible,  a  good  glass.  A  beginner's  note-book  should  be  kept 
after  his  own  whim,  and  with  little  elaboration  beyond  a  fixed 
set  of  abbreviations.  This  is  nobody's  but  his  own,  and  it 
makes  no  difference  if  the  birds  all  fly  away  before  they  have 
been  described.  An  elaborate  note-book  is  possible  only  when 
one  is  well  acquainted  with  the  commoner  birds. 

Children  should  not  be  urged  to  keep  note-books ;  they  see 
more  and  see  it  better  when  there  is  no  effort  at  composition. 


268  APPENDIX. 

If  you  own  an  opera  glass,  use  it.  Any  glass  is  a  help, 
but  in  buying  one  always  buy  a  better  one!  In  buying  be 
generous  with  yourself,  recollecting  that  cheap  glasses  are  not 
good  and  good  glasses  are  not  cheap.  And  yet  the  price  is  no 
surety  of  excellence.  A  friend,  who  had  bought  six,  told  me 
that  the  best  of  them  was  much  the  cheapest.  A  field  glass 
is  better  than  an  opera  glass.  Select  a  good  maker,  whose 
name  is  a  guarantee.  A  glass  must  be  achromatic,  stiff-framed, 
of  large  field  and  fair  power.  Sacrifice  power  to  field  rather 
than  field  to  power.  A  high  power  necessitates  a  longer  frame, 
which  tires  the  neck  and  the  arm,  and  a  small  field,  which 
makes  it  difficult  to  locate  the  bird.  An  aluminum  frame  is 
best  on  account  of  its  light  weight.  The  new  Bausch  and 
Lomb  Trieder  glasses,  being  made  on  a  different  principle, 
give  a  high  power,  a  large  field,  light  weight,  and  a  compact, 
short  frame,  but  the  price  puts  them  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
ordinary  amateur.  With  these,  one  of  the  night  glasses  may 
be  found  to  be  less  trying  to  the  eyes  for  sustained  observation 
than  the  regular  day  glass. 

Time.  —  The  morning  is  worth  many  times  any  other  part  of 
the  day,  because  it  is  generally  cool,  bright,  free  from  wind;  it 
is  also  the  period  of  the  bird's  greatest  activity.  Enthusiasts 
rout  you  out  with  the  sun,  but  unless  it  is  proposed  to  visit 
crow,  robin,  or  swallow  roosts  it  seems  to  me  that  the  uncer- 
tain light,  malarial  fogs,  heavy  dews,  and  morning  chill  must 
damp  the  enthusiasm  of  even  the  "four-o'clockers."  Six  o'clock 
is  early  enough,  and  from  seven  to  nine  is  the  best  time  for  the 
most  people.  Afternoon  work  is  seldom  satisfactory,  as  the 
wind  rises,  the  light  is  weak  and  bad,  and  the  birds  are  tired 
and  silent. 

Look  for  birds  you  know.  Don't  hunt  rarities.  They  will 
come  to  you  if  they  are  in  the  neighborhood,  but  if  you  hunt 
them  you  will  be  losing  good  notes  on  the  familiar  but  not  less 
interesting  species. 

Go  to  gardens,  groves,  shrubbery,  and  thickets  near  town, 


HINTS   ON  IDENTIFYING   STRANGE  LIVE  BIRDS.      269 

especially  wooded  ravines  near  water.  There  are  no  birds  to 
speak  of  in  the  wilderness  and  few  in  deep  woods.  One's 
best  resort  will  usually  be  near  houses,  though  the  beginner 
never  believes  this.  Go  to  the  same  places  repeatedly  rather 
than  to  many  at  intervals ;  you  will  see  as  much  and  will  learn 
more,  after  having  learned  to  recognize  thirty  or  forty  birds, 
than  by  wandering. 

How  to  see  birds  is  an  art  not  to  be  communicated.  The  first 
step  to  it  is  patience ;  learn  to  wait  for  them.  But  never  lie  or 
sit  upon  the  ground  or  on  rocks  until  full  summer  time  unless 
you  have  a  coat  or  wrap  or  are  proof  against  rheumatism. 
This  is  more  important  to  observe  than  the  birds.  Learn 
to  take  the  same  advantage  of  the  sun  that  you  would  in 
photographing. 


HINTS    ON    IDENTIFYING    STRANGE    LIVE    BIRDS. 

Notice  as  many  as  you  can  of  the  following  points :  — 

Size  (in  inches  from  the  tip  of  the  bill  to  the  tip  of  the  tail,  remembering 

that  the  live  bird  is  always  longer  than  he  appears  to  be) . 
Color  (if  you  can  be  sure  of  it,  but  at  all  events  the  color  areas)  : 
wing  bars,  number  and  color,  if  present ; 
stripes  on  head  and  how  placed  ; 
white  outer  tail  feathers,  if  present'; 
rump,  if  differently  colored  from  back  and  tail ; 
under  tail-coverts,  if  different  from  belly  ; 
flanks  and  sides,  if  brightly  colored ; 

odd  ornaments  or  patches  of  color,  as  collars,  necklaces,  breast- 
spots,  etc. 
Shape :   of  body,  slender,  bulky  ; 

of  tail,  long,  short,  square,  forked,  rounded ; 
of  wings,  round,  pointed  (in  flight); 

long  or  short,  judged  by  the  distance  they  measure  off  on  the 
tail  (while  sitting)  ; 
of  bills,  length,  shape,  color  ; 
of  crest,  if  present,  pointed,  erectile,  etc. 


270  APPENDIX. 

Habits :  walking,  hopping  ;  soaring,  hovering ;  terrestrial,  arboreal,  climb- 
ing ;  perch  preferred,  —  trunk,  limb,  tree-top,  dead  twig,  etc.  ; 
manner  of  sitting,  — erect,  crouched,  lengthwise  of  limb  (as  the 
night  hawks)  ;  manner  of  flying,  —  direct,  undulating,  heavy, 
flapping,  etc.  ;  disposition,  —  restless,  quiet,  stupid,  shy,  tame, 
unsuspicious. 

Food  and  how  procured  (if  this  can  be  observed  with  certainty  ;  often  it 
cannot  be  determined). 

Song:  chirp,  trill,  twitter,  melody,  scream,  hoot,  etc.,  describe  as  nearly 
as  possible. 

Nest :  place,  —  ground,  bush,  tree,  hole,  limb,  twig  ; 
placed  how,  —  saddled,  pensile,  in  fork,  etc.  ; 
materials,  —  grass,  moss,  feathers,  hair,  twigs,  etc.  ; 
eggs,  —  number  and  color. 

The  more  of  these  points  that  are  determined  the  surer  will 
be  the  identification,  but  often  one  or  two  of  them  will  suffice 
to  identify  a  bird.  The  secret  is  to  seize  on  the  really  distinc- 
tive mark,  whether  of  habit,  voice,  or  color.  A  note  "  walks 
head  downward  down  tree-trunks "  surely  means  a  nuthatch ; 
"  tail  with  yellow  band  across  tip"  means  the  cherry  bird,  even 
if  there  is  nothing  more  said  or  seen  about  the  bird. 

Always  write  the  notes  while  the  bird  is  before  you.  Use 
your  own  code  of  abbreviations.  Whatever  is  doubtful  write, 
but  mark  it  by  a  sign  of  interrogation  in  parentheses  follow- 
ing, thus :  "  crested  (?)."  Whatever  is  absolutely  certain,  if 
either  strange  or  apparently  important,  mark  with  an  exclama- 
tion point  not  enclosed  in  marks,  thus :  "  crested  (?),  a  band  of 
yellow  across  the  tip  of  tail !  small  vermilion  spots  apparently 
on  rump ! "  There  is  no  doubt  here  that  the  cedar  waxwing 
has  been  seen,  and  that  the  bird  must  have  had  a  crest. 

CEBTAIN   QUESTIONS   ANSWERED. 

There  are  a  few  questions  so  sure  to  come  up  that  they  may 
as  well  be  answered  now. 

Do  I  think  a  school  might  own  a  few  mounted  birds?  I  do 
not  see  why  it  might  not.  A  few  well-chosen,  well-mounted 


CERTAIN  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED.  271 

birds,  kept  away  from  dust  and  moths  are  an  invaluable  aid. 
It  is  the  fate  of  the  vast  majority  of  birds  to  die  violent  deaths, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  no  worse*  for  the  bird  to  live  in 
effigy  for  the  interests  of  science  than  to  die  uncounted  by  the 
talons  of  the  hawk  and  owl  and  by  the  teeth  of  fox,  skunk, 
and  weasel.  Full  well  I  know  the  thirst  for  knowledge  that 
prompts  the  boy  to  make  a  closer  acquaintance  of  what  he 
only  half  sees  at  a  distance ;  full  well  I  know,  if  parents  and 
policemen  do  not,  the  mysteries  of  the  deadly  air-gun  and  pop- 
gun and  sling-shot.  "  Better  the  eyes  should  see  than  that 
desire  should  wander,"  said  the  Preacher,  who  perhaps  remem- 
bered that  he  had  once  been  a  boy. 

A  representative  and  fairly  satisfactory  collection  would  be : 
One  of  any  species  of  Grebe,  Gull,  Duck,  Grouse,  Heron  (the 
least  Bittern  would  be  the  smallest,  the  Bittern  more  fairly 
representative),  Sandpiper  (or  Plover,  or  both),  Hawk,  Owl, 
Cuckoo  or  Kingfisher,  Woodpecker,  Blackbird,  Sparrow,  Fly- 
catcher, Bluejay,  Swift,  Swallow,  Warbler,  Robin.  This  would 
give  types  of  eighteen  of  the  best-known  families. 

Specimens  of  the  commoner  species  are  not  expensive, — 
from.  75  cents  to  $1.50.  Small  birds,  if  not  of  rare  species, 
cost  less  than  large  ones.  All  specimens  should  be  mounted 
on  stands  and  fully  labelled.  All  must  be  kept  in  air-tight 
glass  cases  with  locked  doors,  and  with  camphor  or  naphthaline 
in  the  case  to  drive  away  moths  and  dermestes.  If  this  is  not 
done,  the  collection  is  sure  to  be  ruined  shortly. 

While  a  local  taxidermist  may  be  able  to  supply  good  speci- 
mens, I  take  pleasure  in  naming  (without  their  permission) 
two  firms  well  known  for  their  fair  dealing:  H.  A.  Ward, 
2  College  Ave.,  Rochester,  N.Y.,  and  Charles  K.  Worthen, 
Warsaw,  Hancock,  111.  By  merely  stating  that  the  collection 
is  for  school  use  and  the  amount  of  money  to  be  expended 
on  it,  these  firms  will  furnish  a  better  selection  of  well- 
prepared  specimens  than  the  novice  would  be  able  to  choose 
for  himself. 


272  APPENDIX. 

Do  I  approve  of  boys  making  collections  of  birds?  By  no 
means.  It  was  to  prevent  just  this  that  I  advocated  a  school 
collection  prepared  by  a  competent  naturalist. 

Do  I  approve  of  dissections  in  class?  Not  in  the  lower 
grades  certainly.  In  high  school  and  college  work  nothing 
takes  the  place  of  actual  dissection ;  but  is  it  best  to  exploit 
the  whole  world  of  wonders  for  children  too  young  to  appre- 
ciate them  ?  I  have  purposely  left  out  of  this  book  all  physi- 
ology and  anatomy  that  could  not  be  illustrated  by  chicken 
bones,  in  order  to  avoid  any  necessity  or  excuse  for  dissections, 
for  which  most  children  have  a  distaste  and  to  which  many 
parents  have  objections.  In  this  book  the  mechanism  of  the 
bird  is  taken  up  instead  of  its  anatomy.  Even  the  study  of  the 
eye  is  conducted  by  means  of  a  comparison  with  a  mechanical 
instrument. 

Is  there  any  substitute  for  collections?  No  two-dimension 
representation  can  take  the  place  of  a  three-dimension  object 
in  teaching  children.  They  need  the  "real  thing."  Still, 
where  economy  is  necessary,  there  is  a  substitute  which  is 
not  without  merit.  The  little  monthly  magazine,  Birds  and 
Nature,  published  by  the  Nature  Publishing  Co.  of  Chicago  at 
$1.00  a  year,  gives  many  colored  photographic  reproductions 
of  mounted  birds,  accompanied  by  a  simple  and  usually  correct 
text.  Back  numbers  may  be  obtained  at  moderate  rates.  The 
same  pictures  may  be  bought  separately  of  the  Perry  Pictures 
Company. 

What  books  do  I  recommend  for  teachers?  Among  so  many 
excellent  texts,  I  decline  to  make  invidious  distinctions.  It 
is  scarcely  possible  that  there  is  a  mind  so  abnormally  de- 
veloped that  there  has  not  been  a  bird  book  written  to  fit  its 
needs !  Still,  it  must  be  conceded  by  all,  that  for  the  earnest 
student,  especially  for  one  who  already  knows  thirty  or  forty 
species,  nothing  competes  in  price  and  quality  with  Mr.  Frank 
M. Chapman's  «  Handbook  of  Birds  of  North  America"  ($3.00). 
A  young  beginner  should  have  a  more  elementary  book 


LISTS   OF  BOOKS  273 

Another  book,  in  a  class  by  itself  and  of  high  value  to  the 
field  student,  is  Mr.  C.  J.  Maynard's  "Handbook  of  the 
Sparrows,  Finches,  etc.,  of  New  England"  ($1.50).  This  gives 
a  simple  but  trustworthy  guide  to  every  one  of  this  large  and 
difficult  family  visiting  New  England.  Any  bird  book  not 
to  be  locally  obtained  may  be.  purchased  at  any  time  of  L.  S. 
Foster,  30  Pine  St.,  New  York,  who  makes  a  specialty  of  bird 
books. 

LISTS   OF   BOOKS. 

I.   Books  that  will  be  helpful  to  a  beginner  in  identifying 
birds :  — 

MERRIAM,  Birds  through  an  Opera  Glass.     $.75. 

Fifty  common  land  birds  of  New  England  and  Northern  New  York  ; 

illustrated.     An  admirable  "  first  book  "  for  children. 
GRANT,  Our  Common  Birds.     $1.50. 

Ninety  species  found  near  New  York  City  ;  with  photogravures  from 

mounted  specimens. 
HOWE,  Every  Bird.     $1.00. 

One  hundred  and  twenty-four  genera  of  New  England  birds,  illus- 
trated in  outline,  and  too  briefly  treated  for  field  work. 
MAYNARD,  Handbook  of  the  Sparrows,  Finches,  etc.,  of  New  England. 
$1.50. 

Forty-six  species,  with  colored  plates.     The  colors  do  not  print  well, 
but  the  book  is  a  very  satisfactory  handbook  for  this  difficult  group, 
and  is  especially  adapted  for  field  work. 
WRIGHT  AND  COUES,  Citizen  Bird.     $1.50. 

A  story  of  bird-life,  exquisitely  illustrated,  and  especially  good  for 

children. 
MERRIAM,  Bi?ds  of  Village  and  Field.     $2.00. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  species  of  our  better-known  birds,   finely 

illustrated. 

CHAPMAN,  Bird-life  :  a  guide  to  the  study  of  our  common  birds.     $1.75. 
Seventy-five  full-page  drawings  and  ample  text ;  a  vade  mecum  for 

beginners. 
CHAPMAN,  A  Handbook  of  Birds  of  Eastern  North  America.     $3.00. 

This  book  includes  every  species  and  subspecies  known  east  of  the 
Mississippi  River,  and  is  the  best  brief,  scientific  ornithology  evef 


274  APPENDIX. 

written  ;  not  adapted,  however,  to  students  too  young  to  use   a 
standard  botany,  though  it  is  as  little  technical  as  possible. 
WRIGHT,  Bird-craft.     $3.00. 

Two  hundred  birds  pictured  and  ably  described. 
MINOT,  Land  and  Game  Birds  of  New  England.     $3.50. 

Accurate  and  untechnical,  an  excellent  book  to  get  one  into  the  spirit 

of  the  study,  but>scantily  illustrated. 
MclLWRAiTH,  Birds  of  Ontario.     §2.00. 

Good  not  only  for  the  birds  of  Canada,  but  for  the  more  northern 

states  as  well ;  illustrated. 
BLANCHAN,  Bird  Neighbors.     $2.00. 

Fifty  colored  plates. 
BLANCHAN,  Birds  that  Hunt  and  are  Hunted.     $2.00. 

Forty-eight  colored  plates.     These  two  books  cover  most  of  the  better- 
known  land  and  water  birds,  and  give  good  colored  pictures  to 
guide  in  identification. 
ELIOT,  North  American  Shore  Birds.     $2.50. 

Includes  all  the  snipe,  sandpipers,  plovers,  etc.,  with  fine  drawings  of 
each  species,  and  accurate  technical  descriptions  ;  also  short  account 
of  habits. 
ELIOT,  Gallinaceous  Game  Birds  of  North  America.     $2.50. 

Treats  the  turkeys,  grouse,  quail,  etc. ,  afterthesamemethodastheabove. 
COREY,  How  to  Know  the  Ducks,  Geese,  and  Swans  of  North  America. 
Paper  covers,  $1.00. 

A  fully  illustrated  and  thoroughly  prepared  manual. 
COREY,  How  to  Know  the  Shore  Birds  of  North  America.     Paper,  $.75. 

Similar  to  the  above  in  scope  and  plan  ;  fully  illustrated. 
LANGILLE,  Our  Birds  in  their  Haunts.     $3.00. 

A  high  authority  on  songs,  habits,  etc.,  and  long  a  favorite  work  with 

beginners. 

FISHER,  Hawks  and  Owls  of  the  United  States.     (United  States  Bulletin.) 
Has  very  fine  colored  plates  of  each  species,  with  full  account  of  the 

economic  value  of  each. 

NUTTALL,  Handbook  of  Ornithology.     Revised  by  Chamberlain.     2  vols., 
$9.00. 

A  modernized  reprint  of  an  old  and  valuable  work. 
BELDING,  Land  Birds  of  the  Pacific  Coast.     $2.50. 
Goss,  Birds  of  Kansas.    $7.50. 

Five  hundred  and  twenty-nine  species  treated  ;  vthirty-five  plates  ,*  a 
recognized  authority,  not  only  on  the  birds  of  Kansas,  but  of  all 
the  Mississippi  Valley. 


LISTS   OF  VOOKS.  275 

COUES,  Birds  of  the  Colorado  Valley.     $4.00. 
COUES,  Birds  of  the  Northwest.     $4.00. 

Two  old  books,  but  still  high  authorities  on  the  regions  covered. 
COREY,  Key  to  the  Water  Birds  of  Florida.     $1.75. 
SAMUELS,  Birds  of  New  England  and  Adjacent  States. 
STEARNS  AND  COUES,  New  England  Bird  Life.     2  vols. 

Two  books  of  good  value,  but  displaced  by  later  and  better  illus- 
trated works. 


The  following  standard  works  are  either  very  large,  rare, 
costly,  or  highly  technical  works  such  as  the  ordinary  pur- 
chaser would  not  care  to  buy.  They  are  invaluable  in  their 
place,  and  can  be  consulted  in  any  large  library.  It  should  be 
remembered  that  the  older  works,  like  Audubon  and  Wilson, 
use  a  different  nomenclature,  so  that  sometimes  a  bird  will  not 
bear  the  same  name  as  to-day;  also  that  many  new  species 
have  been  discovered  since  these  books  were  published. 

AUDUBON'S  Birds  ;  colored  plates  of  all  species. 

WILSON'S  Ornithology. 

BAIRD,  BREWER,  AND  RIDGWAY,  Land  Birds  (3  vols.)  and  Water  Birds 

(2  vols.). 
BENDIRE'S  Life  Histories  of  North  American  Birds.     2  vols. 

This  work  was  left  unfinished  by  the  death  of  the  author,  but  the 
part  completed  is  an  acknowledged  authority  on  the  habits  and 
nests    of    the    Hawks,    Grouse,    Woodpeckers,    Flycatchers,    etc. 
Colored  plates  of  eggs  only. 
RIDGWAY'S  Manual  of  North  American  Birds. 
COUES'S  Key  to  North  American  Birds. 

These  two  are  the  standard  technical  works  on  North  American  birds, 
but  are  not  intended  for  field  work,  and  contain  nothing  about  the 
habits  of  birds. 
MAYNARD,  Birds  of  Eastern  North  America. 

A  large  and  valuable  work,  fully  illustrated,  and  with  ample  notes 
on  the  habits  of  birds. 

II.  Books  tfyat  treat  of  birds  descriptively  and  infor- 
mally ;  good  books  to  draw  from  the  public  library  for  home 
reading. 


276 


APPENDIX. 


FRANK  BOLLBS, 
WILSON  FLAGG, 

C.  C.  ABBOTT, 
JOHN  BURROUGHS, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU, 


H.  E.  PARKHURST, 

MAURICE  THOMPSON, 
BRADFORD  TORREY, 


FLORENCE  A.  MERRIAM, 
LEANDER  S.   KEYSER, 
OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER, 


Land  of  the  Lingering  Snow. 

North  of  Bearcamp  Water. 

From  Blomidon  to  Smoky. 

Birds  and  Seasons  of  New  England. 

Field  and  Forest. 

Woods  and  Byways  of  New  England. 

Birds  about  us. 

Travels  in  a  Tree-top  ;  and  other  volumes. 

Birds  and  Poets. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 

Wake-robin  ;  and  his  other  nature  books. 

Walden. 

The  Maine  Woods. 

Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts. 

Summer. 

Autumn. 

Winter. 

The  Bird's  Kalendar. 

Song  Birds  and  Water  Fowl. 

Byways  and  Bird  Notes ;  and  other  books. 

Birds  in  the  Bush. 

A  Rambler's  Lease. 

The  Footpath  Way. 

A  Florida  Sketch  Book. 

Spring  Notes  from  Tennessee. 

In  the  White  Mountains. 

A-birding  on  a  Bronco. 

My  Summer  in  a  Mormon  Village. 

In  Bird-land. 

Bird-dom. 

Little  Brothers  of  the  Air. 

In  Nesting  Time. 

Bird  Ways. 

A  Bird  Lover  in  the  West. 


INDEX. 


AERATED  BONES,  103. 
Air-cells  in  bones,  79. 
Albatross,  90,  92,  176,  177. 

black-footed,  41. 

short-tailed,  41. 
Albinism,  def.,  115. 
Albinos,  115. 
Anhinga,  50-51. 
Ani,  102. 

Anthony,  A.  W.,  quoted,  38-41. 
Assiniboia,  58. 
Audubon,  John  James,  201. 
Auklet,  Cassiu's,  15,  16,  80. 
Avocet,  103. 

BAHAMA  ISLANDS,  172. 

Baie  des  Chaleurs,  43. 

Barbs,  def.,  81. 

Barbules,  def.,  81. 

Bats,  76,  77,  83. 

Bermuda  Islands,  171. 

Big  Spenser  Mountain  (Maine),  13. 

Bills  of  birds,  99-107. 

Bison,  58. 

Bittern,  6,  61,  253,  266. 

Blackbirds,  Brewer's,  115. 

crow,  134,  254. 

red-winged,  115,  186. 

See  also  Grackle  and  Cowbird. 
Bluebird,  74,  264. 
Bobolink,  147,  258. 
Bob-white,  see  Quail. 
Bonaventure  Island  (St.  Lawrence),  43. 
"  Booming  "  of  sooty  grouse,  191. 
Breeding  grounds,  157. 
Brewster,  William,  quoted,  47,  164,  167-171 

264-267.     ' 

"Brooding  spots,"  36. 
Browning,  Robert,  quoted,  255. 
"  Budding"  of  ruffed  grouse,  195. 
Buffalo  trails,  58. 
Bunting,  indigo,  150.  232. 

lazuli,  254. 

snow,  199,  200,  243,  264. 
Burroughs,  John,  quoted,  255,  256. 

CAMERA,  compared  to  the  eye,  108-111. 
Cape  Sable  (Florida),  52. 


Cardinal,  Virginia,  150. 

Carpus,  def.,  70. 

Cartier,  Jacques,  quoted,  42. 

Casco  Bay  (Maine),  33. 

Catbird,  90. 

Caucomgornoc  Lake  (Maine),  12. 

Cedar-bird,  116,  152. 

Central  Park  (New  York),  60. 

Cere,  def.,  20. 

Chapman,  Frank  M.,  quoted,  171,  258. 

Charlestown  (Mass.),  179. 

Chat,  yellow-breasted,  232. 

Chebec,  see  Least  flycatcher. 

Cherry-bird,  see  Cedar-bird. 

Chesuncook  Lake  (Maine),  13. 

Chickadee,  161,  243,  253. 

Chipmunk,  26. 

Chuck-will's-widow,  257. 

Classification,  basis  of,  126. 

method  of,  121-125. 
Climate,  effect  of,  on  color,  144. 
Color  phases,  22,  117. 
Coloration,  asymmetrical,  106. 

protective,  50,  143-145,  149-154. 
Columbus,  guided  by  birds,  171. 
Compressed  bills,  102. 
Coot  ("  mud  hen  "),  7. 

(duck),  see  Scoter. 
Coracoids,  70. 

Cormorant,  31,  44-50,  57,  112. 
Courlan,  50. 
Cowbird,  115,  230-234. 

Argentine,  234. 

bay-winged,  234. 
Cow  blackbird,  see  Cowbird. 
Cranes,  57,  59-60. 

brown,  49. 

Cross- bill,  101,  102,  243,  264. 
Crow,  26,  27,  31,  88,  114,  116,  237,  264. 

fish,  49. 

Crow  blackbird,  112,  134. 
"-Crying  bird,"  see  Courlan. 
Cuckoo,  96,  235,  264. 

black-billed',  225-228. 

European,  235. 

mangrove,  227. 

yellow-billed,  226,  228. 
Curlew,  pink,  see  Spoonbill. 
277 


278 


INDEX. 


Curlew,  long-billed,  100,  102. 
Cypress  swatnp,  48. 

DAKOTA,  58. 

"Dead-limb  bird,"  see  Wood  pewee. 
Definitions,  how  to  make  them,  124. 
Depressed  bills,  def.,  103. 
"  Devil-diver,"  see  Grebe. 
Dichromatisin,  def.,  117. 
Distribution,  155-162. 
Diver,  red-throated,  11. 

great  northern,  see  Loon. 
Dove,  112.    See  also  Pigeon,  domestic. 
Drinking  habits  of  birds,  175-178. 
"Drumming"  of  ruffed  grouse,  189. 
Ducks,  57,  58,  95,  103. 

black,  25,  177. 

dusky,  see  Black. 

mallard,  15. 

wood,  6. 

See  also  Goosander,  Merganser,  and  Scoter. 

EAGLE,  82,  88, 101. 
Eastport  (Maine),  23. 
Egret,  little  white,  49,  129. 

reddish,  49,  117. 
Emarginate,  def.,  78. 
"Excalibur,"  13. 
Excised  feet,  def.,  95. 
Eyes  of  birds,  108-114. 

FALCON,  Peale's,  17. 
Families,  def.,  126. 
Farallons  (California),  80. 
Feet  of  birds,  93-98. 
Finch,  purple,  176,  264. 

pine,  see  Linnet. 
Fish-hawk,  98. 
Fiske,  John,  quoted,  66,  171. 
Flagg,  Wilson,  258. 
Flamingo,  52-55, 103. 
Flicker,  see  Woodpecker. 
Flight,  84-92. 

false  analogies,  85-86. 

problems  of,  85. 


starting,  88. 
Florida,  48. 
Flycatchers,  101,  116,  183,  184. 

Acadian,  186,  187. 

alder,  186,  187. 

great-crested,  186,  227. 

green-crested,  see  Acadian. 

least,  185,  187. 

olive-sided,  186, 187. 

yellow-bellied,  186,  187. 


Flycatchers,  see  also  Chebec,  Kingbird,  Wood 

pewee,  Phoebe. 
Foes  of  bird-life,  10,  142. 
Food  of  grouse,  195. 
Forster,  201. 
Franklin,  Sir  John,  202. 
Frigate  pelican,  or  Frigate  bird,  see  Man-o'- 

war  bird. 
Fulmars,  3i*-41,  176. 

GALLINULE,  71. 

Gannet,  43-50,  60,  71,  129. 

"Gannet,"  see  Wood  ibis. 

Gape,  def.,  100. 

Gaspe  Bay  (St.  Lawrence),  44. 

Geese,  95. 

Genus,  def.,  127. 

Goldfinch,  256,  264. 

Goosander,  113. 

Goshawk,  90,  92,  114. 

Crackle,  boat-tailed,  49. 

bronzed,  see  Crow  blackbird. 

purple,  see  Crow  blackbird. 
Grand  Manan  (Maine),  18,  45. 
Grebe,  1-8,  59,  73,  139,  176. 

American  eared,  5. 

horned,  5. 

pied-billed,  5. 
Greely,  Gen.  Alonzo,  160. 
"Grosbeak,"  see  Egret,  129. 
Grosbeak,  cardinal,  153. 

pine,  131,  219-233,  243,  264. 
Guillemot,  44. 

black,  19. 

pigeon,  30. 
Gull,  141, 176. 

black-backed,  25. 

Bonaparte's,  20,  24,  28. 

Franklin's  rosy,  28,  59. 

Heerman's,  28. 

herring,  23,  24,  25,  27,  28,  40. 

kittiwake,  24,  28,  177. 

laughing,  28. 

Western,  23,  28,31,40. 
"  Gull  hawk,"  see  Jaeger. 

HARE,  128. 

Hawk,  82,  92,  97,  98,  101,  102,  112,  116,  178, 
200,  253. 

broad-winged,  180. 

Cooper's,  180,  181. 

pigeon,  181. 

red-tailed,  116. 

rough-legged,  116. 

sharp-shinned,  90,  179-182. 

sharp-shinned,  foot  of,  182. 


INDEX. 


279 


Hawk,  Swainson's,  116. 

See  also  Goshawk. 
"  Hell-diver,"  see  Grebe. 
Heron,  6,  93,  98,  101,  141. 

little  blue,  49. 

Louisiana,  113. 

night,  49. 

Ward's,  49. 

See  also  Egret. 

Hints  on  identifying  birds,  269. 
Hovering,  90. 

How  birds  are  named,  128-131. 
Humming-bird,  90,  93,  101,  140,  1T9. 

Princess  Helena,  111. 

ruby-throated, -152. 
"  Hutnmocks,"  48-49. 
Huxley,  Thomas  H.,  quoted,  120. 

IBIS,  white,  49.' 

wood,  49,  129. 
Indian  Falls  (Maine),  180. 
Indigo  bird,  see  Bunting. 
Inertia,  def.,  88. 

Ingraham,  Capt.  D.  P.,  quoted,  52-56. 
Iris  of  birds,  112-114. 
Isothermal  lines,  158. 

"JACKDAW,"  see  Boat-tailed  grackle. 
Jaeger,  18-22,  117. 
Jay,  blue,  190. 

Canada,  190. 

Oregon,  190. 

Steller's,  190. 
Junco.  Oregon,  190. 

slate-colored,  161,  175. 
Junk  o'  Pork  (Maine),  33. 

KINGBIRD,  186. 

Kingfisher,  97,  184,  264. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  quoted,  14,  33,  38. 

Kittiwake,  see  Gulls. 

Knee  of  birds,  68. 

LABRADOR,  42. 
Laminse  of  bills,  103. 
Lark,  horned,  97,  133,  264. 

meadow,  see  Meadow-lark. 
Law  of  gradation,  152. 
Leucosticte.  161. 

Lighthouses  as  bird  destroyers,  164-166. 
Limpkin,  see  Courlan. 
Lincoln  Park  (Chicago),  60,  71. 
Linnet,  pine,  200,  243,  264. 
List  of  bird  books,  273. 
Littlejohn,  Chase  A.,  quoted,  14-17. 
Lobate  feet,  94. 


Long,  Major,  202. 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  quoted,  26,  30,  48,  57. 

Longspur,  97. 

Loon,  9-13, 45, 59,72, 73, 88, 90,95, 141,176,267. 

Louisiana  state  seal,  62. 

Lowell,  James  Eussell,  quoted,  1,  9,  258. 

MACBETH,  quoted,  215. 
Magdalen  Islands,  43. 
Mahonia,  183. 

Man-o'-war  bird,  90,  92,  94,  101,  102. 
Mallard,  see  Duck. 

black,  see  Black  duck. 
"  Marlingspike,"  see  Jaeger. 
Martin,  purple,  202,  213-218. 
Meadow-lark,  116,  264. 

western,  188. 
Melanism,  116. 
Merganser,  hooded,  114. 

red-headed,  114. 
Migration,  163-172,  264-266. 
Mink,  199. 

Momentum,  def.,  88. 
"  Moose-ear,"  see  Pontederia. 
"  Mother  Cary's  chickens,"  see  Petrel. 
Mount  Hood  (Oregon),  188. 
Mountains,  effect  upon  climate,  159. 
"  Mourning  widow,"  see  Courlan. 
Murrelet,  ancient,  14-17. 
Murres,  30,  32. 
Muskeget  Island  (Mass.),  177. 

NEW  ZEALAND,  106. 
Newfoundland,  42. 
Night-hawk,  93,  98,  99,  100,  151. 
Nostrils  of  birdf,  99. 
Nuthatch,  pygmy,  191. 

red-breasted,  158,  161. 

white-breasted,  99. 

OBSERVING  BIRDS,  hints  on,  267,  268. 

Ocean  currents,  effect  on  climate,  159. 

"  Old  man,"  see  Ancient  murrelet. 

"Old  swell"  of  sea,  19. 

Orders,  def.,  126. 

"  Oregon  grape,"  see  Mahonia. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  150,  227,  232,  253,  254,  264. 

Ostrich,  79,  81,  139. 

Oven-bird,  256. 

Owls,  97,  98,  101,  111,  112,  151,  258. 

horned,  133,  192, 198. 

screech,  133. 

PALMATE  FEET,  95. 
Parasitism,  def.,  230. 


280 


INDEX. 


Parrot,  96,  101,  102. 

gray,  112. 
"Partridge,"  see  Ruffed  grouse. 

spruce,  see  Canada  grouse. 
Passamaquoddy  Bay  (Maine),  24. 
"  Peabody-bird,"    see   White-throated   spar- 
row. 

Peacock,  82. 
Pecten,  111. 
Pelican,  57,  59,  61-64,  71, 112. 

brown,  61. 

European,  60. 
.  white,  61,  101. 
Penguin,  139. 
Perce,  42,  43. 
Petersvogel,  see  Petrel. 
Petrel,  15,  30,  176,  177. 

fork-tailed,  16. 

Leach's,  16,  34-38. 
Pewee,  see  Wood  pewee  or  Phoebe. 
"Phaeton  Rogers,"  86. 
Phalaropes,  20,  57,  71,  94. 
Pheasant,  129. 

ring-necked  or  Denny,  129. 
Phcebe,  183,  184,  187,  232. 
"Pickerel  weed,"  see  Pontederia. 
Pigeons,  176. 

domestic,  253. 

wild,  91,  112. 
Plover,  57,  59,  151. 

crook-billed,  106. 

whistling,  253. 

yellow-legged,  253. 
Point  Lepreaux  (Bay  of  Fundy),  164. 
Point  Loma  (California),  38. 
Polyandry,  among  birds,  231. 
Polygamy,  among  birds,  23ft 
Ponleder'ia,  4. 
Poplar,  food  for  grouse,  195. 
Porcupine,  199. 

•'  Prairie  dove,"  see  Franklin's  Rosy  gull. 
Prairie  du  Couteau  (North  Dakota),  58. 
Prairie  flowers,  58. 
Primaries,  77,  78,  83,  89. 
Prince  Edward  Island,  258. 
Problems,  of  food  and  structure,  138-141. 

of  reproduction  and  habits,  145-148. 

of  safety  and  color,  142-145. 
Protective  coloration,  50,  149-154,  197,  198. 
Ptarmigan,  161. 
Puffin,  102. 

tufted,  30. 
Pyramid  Lake  (Nevada),  64. 

QUAIL,  116,  129,151,254. 
Questions  answered,  270. 


RACES,  geographical,  133. 

Rail,  7,  71. 

"  Raincrow,"  see  Cuckoo. 

Raptores,  birds  of  prey,  def.,  101. 

Raven,  114. 

Red-poll,  200,  243. 

Redstart,  see  Warbler. 

Reproduction,  146-148. 

"  Ricebird,"  see  Bobolink. 

Robin,  74,  116,  117,  176,  248-251. 

SAGE-COCK,  162. 

St.  Croix  River,  18. 

St.  Lawrence  River,  42. 

San  Francisco  Mountain  (Arizona),  160. 

Sandpiper,  57-59,  71,  93,  94,  151. 

pectoral,  253. 

spoon -billed,  105. 

spotted,  266. 
Sapsucker,  red-breasted,  190. 

yellow-bellied,  190. 
Scapulars,  def.,  78. 
Scoter,  178. 

"  Sea  geese,"  see  Phalarope. 
"Sea  pigeon,"  see  Black  Guillemot. 
Seal,  19,  44. 
Secondaries,  77,  83,  89. 
Semipalmation,  def.,  94. 
Shaft,  of  feathers,  81. 
Shakespeare,  quoted,  215,  225. 
Shearwater,  117,  176. 

black-vented,  39,  41. 
Sheldrake,  see  Goosander. 
Shrew  mouse,  199. 
Shrike,  102,  242-247. 

great  northern,  240. 

loggerhead,  236-241. 
Skimmer,  black,  104. 
Skua,  see  Jaeger. 
Skylark,  97. 

"Snake  bird,"  see  Anhinga. 
Snipe,  100,  101,  151,  266. 
Snowbird,  see  Bunting  and  Junco. 
Snow  bunting,  see  Bunting. 
Soaring,  91. 

Spanish  moss,  see  Tillandsia. 
Sparrow,  English,  112,  115,  176,  179,  207,  216 
217,  242.  244. 

chipping,  184,  254. 

fox,  193. 

song,  133,  232. 

swamp,  223. 

tree,  200,  243. 

western  song,  193. 

white-throated,  257. 
Sparrow  hawk,  see  Hawk. 


INDEX. 


281 


Species,  def.,  127. 
Specific  effect,  def.,  146. 
Spoonbill,  roseate,  49,  105. 
Squirrel,  red,  199. 

flying,  199. 

"Stake-driver,"  see  Bittern. 
Steering  flight,  90. 
Stilt,  253. 

Stopping  flight,  91. 
Straits  of  Mackinac,  168. 
Strings,  used  by  birds,  238. 
f  Sub-species,  def.,  132. 
Sunbirds,  103. 
Swallow,  79,  89,  99,  100,  139,  140,  253. 

bank,  203. 

barn,  190. 

blue-backed,  203,  254. 

cliff,  see  Eaves  swallow. 

eaves,   116,  190,  201-212,  232,  254. 

rough-winged,  203. 

tree,  see  Blue-backed. 

violet-green,  190. 
Swan,  57,  96. 

black,  60. 
Swift,  79,  89,  93,  99,  100. 

chimney,  90,  190. 

Vaux's,  190. 
Swimming,  71-74. 
Syndactylous,  def.,  97. 

TANAGER,  scarlet,  150,  254,  256. 

Tarso-metatarsus,  69. 

Tarsus,  69. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  quoted,  13. 

Terete,  def.,  98. 

Tern,  29,  57,  59,  89,  90,  93,  94,  176,  177. 

Forster's,  59. 

roseate,  254. 

Wilson's  or  common,  101,  254. 
Tertiaries,  def.,  78. 
Thayer,  Abbott  H.,  quoted,  153,  154. 
Thoreau,    Henry   D.,  quoted,   68,   174    255 

256. 

Thrasher,  brown,  255. 
Thrush,  hermit,  249-251. 
Tibio-tarsus,  def.,  69. 
"Tick-eater,"  see  Ani. 
Tillandsia,  48. 
Totipalmate,  50,  95,  96. 
"  Towering,"  89. 
Towhee,  113,  232. 

Oregon,  190. 

white-eyed,  113. 


Tricks  of  flight,  91. 
Turkey-buzzard,  88. 

UNGA  ISLAND  (Alaska),  14. 
Unsymmetrical  coloration,  106,  107. 

VARIATION,  geographical,  132,  133. 
Vireo,  red-eyed,  113,  187,  227,  258. 

white-eyed,  113,  258. 

yellow-throated,  256,  258. 

WARBLER,  116,  150,  184. 
Audubon's,  191. 

blue  yellow-backed,  162. 

chestnut-sided,  254. 

hermit,  191. 

pine,  162. 

redstart,  254. 

yellow,  140. 

yellow-rum  ped,  164. 
Water  ousel,  71,  129. 
"  Water  turkey,"  see  Anhinga. 
"  Water  witch,"  see  Grebe. 
"  Water  wren,"  see  Water  ousel. 
Webbed  feet,  71,  73. 
Whip-poor-will,  151. 
Whittier,  John  G.,  quoted,  18,  23,  42. 
Wild  cat,  198. 
Willet,  253. 

Willow,  food  of  grouse,  195. 
Wilson,  Alexander,  quoted,  104. 
Wings,  requirements  of,  75. 

problems  of  construction,  76. 

shape,  79. 
Winking  membrane,  114, 
Wishbones,  70. 
Wood  pewee,  184,  185,  187. 
Woodcock,  100,  101,  151,  266. 
Woodpecker,  93,  96,  100,  104,  178,  200,  254. 

downy,  131,  133,  243. 

hairy,  133. 

ivory -billed,  49. 

Lewis's,  191. 

pileated,  190. 

red-headed,  232. 

three-toed,  157,  161.    See  also  Sapsucker. 
Wren,  marsh,  7. 

rock,  232. 

ZOOGEOGRAPHICAL  divisions,  263. 
Zoogeography,  155,  156. 
Zygodactyl,  def.,  96. 


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MAR  24  1941 

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